The Jealous Partner Affair
by TheRimmerConnection
Summary: Napoleon is behaving oddly. Nothing major, just little things, like the way he seems to want every woman Illya manages to snare. On an assignment with a female agent, Illya is brought face-to-face with an interesting truth. Rated for slashy final chapter!
1. Prologue

A/N: Okay, so this is what happens when you watch all four seasons in under a month and then try to write a little bit of harmless PWP. It sort of escalated and went all plotty on me. I'm blaming Mr Waverly - he should never have got involved at the beginning of Act I - I could have got them straight into bed then - but he's a tough boss and I'm an easily led author XD

It's mine, so it's slashy...eventually.

Disclaimer: No, none of it is mine. I'm at the back of a very long queue for possession of Illya and Naps. Even if they were released to a grateful nation, I'd still be waiting to get my hands on them in forty years' time. Dash it all ;P

* * *

**The Jealous Partner Affair**

**Prologue**

For once, one of so few occasions he could count them on his fingers, Illya had got the girl. That is, to be more precise, the girl had decided that she had got him, slipping her arm through his as they walked slowly around the edge of the crowded dance-floor. They reached a vacant booth and sat down at the table within.

'Illya,' she said, playing distractedly with his fingers, 'd'you really have to go back tomorrow?'

'I'm afraid so,' he said, rather more bluntly than Napoleon would have approved of, but then he had no intention of having her clinging to him the next day when he had to leave to board the plane back to New York. Napoleon never seemed to have a problem getting away from his entanglements, but then he was used to dealing with females who had locked their arms around his neck. Somehow he could always detach them without actually causing them too much physical or emotional distress. Illya had an idea that if he attempted the same thing, he would either hurt their feelings beyond repair, or possibly, if they were really tenacious, put them in hospital. Much easier to warn her with a little coldness now and, presuming she was...modern enough to give him an outlet for his current needs tonight, he could play the sneaky Russian in the morning and get out before she awoke.

It didn't look as though she was modern enough, however. At his statement she withdrew her hand and sighed dramatically,

'I knew it. Oh well, that's the end of that then.'

Illya glanced at her and felt a little pang of disappointment. Not that he loved her. Not at all, really. On the other hand, she was attractive and sweet enough, and he really _could_ use a little bit of bedroom activity tonight, if only for purely physical reasons. How _did_ Napoleon always manage to get the feisty little things that just threw themselves into his arms and his bed, or, more usually, given the circumstances, their bed?

'You're sure?' he asked, trying not to sound desperate, 'I have some leave coming up, I might be able to get back here.'

'Might, yeah,' she replied, in a voice that said she'd heard it all before.

'Well, at least let us enjoy the rest of our time here. Want to dance?' She nodded a little wistfully and let him take her hand and lead her back onto the floor.

They had been moving slowly among the other dancers for about quarter of an hour, when Illya felt a familiar hand on his shoulder and heard an unnecessarily seductive voice rumble into his ear,

'Wanna come home with me?' Illya turned, his eyes narrowed, and Napoleon grinned at him, 'Well I get the feeling we'll be in trouble with accounts again if we turn in two taxi fares for tonight's little excursion from here to there.' He raised his eyes to the girl still standing, slightly awkwardly now, in the circle of Illya's arm, 'Miss Haviland, can we drop you off anywhere? Or, ah...' he paused, trying to work out whether or not he'd interrupted anything a little more private than he'd expected, 'Ah, you two didn't have plans to go on somewhere else, did you?'

'No,' replied Illya quickly, dropping his hand from her waist and stepping back with a polite click of his heels. He noticed an almost imperceptible raising of Napoleon's eyebrows and glared at him. 'No. Now, Lottie, would you like to be taken somewhere, or do you wish to remain here?'

Lottie glanced around the room and then back at Illya, letting her gaze linger on his neatly combed hair and his lost-boy blue eyes.

'If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stay here. I know a few people I haven't had time to speak to yet and I know I'll find someone to take me home later.'

'Very well. In that case, until we meet again.' He nodded a little bow at her. 'Look after yourself.'

'Goodbye, Miss Haviland,' said Napoleon, cutting in to take her hand and kiss it.

'Goodbye, Mr Solo. Goodbye, Illya,' she said, her tone making clear that she knew it was for good. She took a step towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then seemed to remember something and kissed him for a long second on the lips. She took a step away, her eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before she looked up to wave them farewell.

Illya turned his back and forgot her.

What he did not forget was the look he had seen on Napoleon's face through his half-closed eyes as she had kissed him. A slight sneer of the lips, the teeth exposed, the eyes wide, as if his whole face wasn't sure whether it was laughing or slightly disgusted. He could not pin the look down, and he tried to forget it, but it clung to his brain.


	2. Act I

**Act I - I thought you were going to be frivolous?**

Napoleon and Illya hurried side by side down the corridor at U.N.C.L.E.'s New York Headquarters.

'Must be urgent,' said Napoleon, checking his cuff-links were properly done-up as they walked.

'It had better be,' replied Illya, 'I missed breakfast to get in at such short notice.' Napoleon glanced at him and smiled at the hurt look on Illya's face. He turned the smile into an extremely false look of concern,

'Aw, poor baby,' he muttered, timing it carefully so that they reached the door to Mr Waverly's office before Illya could retaliate.

'Ah, good morning gentlemen,' Mr Waverly called over his shoulder, not bothering to look around, but gesturing them to sit with a wave of his pipe. He fell silent, staring at the screen in front of him while they took their seats at the large, round table. They waited for a few minutes before Napoleon grew impatient and tentatively tried,

'Er, was it, erm, anything urgent, you wanted to see us about?' Mr Waverly turned at last, chewing on the stem of his pipe,

'Certainly it is, Mr Solo. A little patience on your part would not go amiss.'

Napoleon gave one of his curious little facial winces that meant, very clearly, _Damnit!_

'I have here a report from Intelligence, suggesting that Thrush may be developing a new little surprise for the rest of the world at an establishment in England. A quaint little tourist attraction of the sort the American tourist abroad finds so irresistible. Which is why, gentlemen, I am sending you to investigate.' He placed two files on the table and spun them round to his agents. 'A British agent by the name of Mary Reed has been attempting to gain entry as an employee. It is a historical exhibition of sorts, you understand, and they appear to employ a large number of guides and...what do you call them? Actors. However, despite their recent opening, they seem to be rather reluctant to take on any staff who are not already...within the organisation. You understand?'

'The whole thing staffed by Thrush operatives,' stated Illya.

'Top to bottom,' added Napoleon absently, flicking through his copy of the intelligence file. 'Now why would they want to waste all that manpower on playing tour-guide?'

'Quite, Mr Solo. You will pay them a visit, oh, quite naturally, as an American tourist with a fascination for all things historical. In fact, you are quite likely to develop something of a fixation on their little show, requiring a number of lengthy visits to satisfy your curiosity. We need to know if there is anything to be seen from the public side of those exhibits before we go barging in to their behind-the-scenes areas. We cannot take the risk of their taking fright and shutting up shop before we've had time to inspect the goods. Mr Kuryakin will attend on your first visit, but will then liaise with Miss Reed. She has some idea of the workings of the place, having attended an unsuccessful but fairly informative interview.

'Now gentlemen, you are booked on the eight-thirty flight to London, so you had best be on your way. Good luck.'

The front of the 'House of History' attraction was a bow-windowed mock-Tudor facade with a heavy, wooden door, which currently stood open, held that way by a suit of slightly rusty armour. Napoleon and Illya strode up to it, doing their best to look like tourists. Napoleon had a camera and a money-bag slung around his neck and carried a map of London. Illya had decided that it would be safer all round if _he_ carried the packed-lunches and was now swinging the empty bag beside him.

They paid a bored-looking man in a booth at the door and went in, Napoleon instantly taking a convincing delight in every object they saw,

'Say, Illya, look at this little doodad here.' He squinted at the card next to it and read, '"Anglo-Saxon

rock crystal ball. Believed by the wearers to have supernatural powers." I bet. Sure is a neat little thing. Do you see? Come on, take a look.'

'Yes, very nice,' said Illya, uninterested. Napoleon looked around in feigned disappointment and smirked,

'You know, it's pretty dim in here. You'd probably get a much better view if you took off the dark glasses.'

They continued round the building, Napoleon moving painfully slowly, exclaiming loudly at every new item, Illya showing more and more signs of extreme boredom, which became less and less fake as time went on.

Half way around the building they noticed a slight change in the style of the piece, as if the front of the exhibition so far had been an earlier effort, with a modern improvement tacked onto the end. Napoleon glanced at Illya, who nodded to show that he had noticed it.

Here there were models, no more actual artefacts, but recreations of old machines and inventions.

'There's, uh, quite an emphasis on human-powered vehicles here, isn't there.'

'Yes. You should have bought a guide-book at the front desk. Maybe it would explain.'

'Oh, no need,' said Napoleon, cheerfully, 'They've got all these handy-dandy little cards to tell me all about it.'

Illya looked at his watch and picked up the bag he had set down for a moment while he waited for Napoleon.

'Fascinating as all this is, I'm going to head back to the hotel. I have some postcards I want to write before dinner and time is getting on. Shall I see you back there?'

'Yeah, I'll be back by six I guess. Wanna take in a show tonight?'

'I want to do something fun tonight. Having waded through this suffocating history all day, I am determined to do something frivolous tonight.'

'Frivolous?' asked Napoleon, disbelievingly.

'Yes, frivolous. Excuse me. I will see you later.' He headed off to the exit, while Napoleon remained, staring intently at one of the cards and laughing to himself.

Napoleon arrived back at the hotel at quarter-to six and let himself into their room. Illya was lying on his bed, head buried in a book. Napoleon bent down to squint at the spine.

'Physics, at this time of day? I thought you were going to be frivolous?'

Illya took a sharp breath, 'I am. This is practically a children's book. It was all I could find on the Charing Cross Road. I was most disappointed.'

'You've written all your postcards?' Napoleon asked, his tongue firmly in his cheek. 'You just didn't feel like staying out the afternoon at the house of horrors then? I thought you liked history.' Illya blinked slowly, put the book down and swung himself around to sit on the edge of the bed.

'Do you know how insufferable you are when you put on your American tourist act?'

'No, but I'm sure I'm going to hear about it for the rest of the evening.'

'Alright. I'll keep quiet. But if I'd stuck around another minute, I might have had to knock you out. I thought that might not be all that good for our cover.' He squinted up at Napoleon. 'Did you find anything out?'

'Only that they have the finest collection of human-powered flight equipment anywhere in the world and that a surprising amount of it is decorated with what I can best describe as fairly persuasive torture equipment.'

'That seems like a novel combination.'

'My very thoughts.'

'So, what do we do next?'

'I go back to the museum tomorrow. You go and meet this British Agent. Mary... Hmm. Could be fun.' Illya gave him a withering look and went back to his book.

Mary turned out to be a very capable agent with blonde hair and a pointy bosom. She greeted Illya warmly and took him straight to an office to view the file she had built up on the Thrush establishment.

'You see, they've been bringing in their own people for months. They advertised a number of posts and I applied, but there were about ten of us waiting. I managed to talk to five of them, got their names and checked them out. Three of them had no records on our files, but two of them were known Thrush operatives. I'll give you five points if you can guess who got two of the jobs that day.'

'Hmm. I think I can guess. So do we actually know what they're up to in there?'

'Only bits of it. You've done the tour?'

'I've played tourist in the exhibition.'

'Notice anything?'

'A proclivity for man-powered mobile torture machines and a distinct lack of any refreshments area.'

She smiled at him,

'Stick with the first observation. I think it has more relevance. Now Thrush, while notably fond of seizing any opportunity to inflict pain on their fellow humans, does not usually go for the low-tech option when miniature atomic devices or fascinating new chemicals are available, which they undoubtedly are.'

'True. So what are they doing with it?'

'Well, when I went in for my interview, it was in an office. Now I don't pretend that I had much of a chance to look around, but it was clear from the layout that we were in the only office space in the main part of the building. As to what they have underground, I don't know, but the, as it were, legitimate side of their business had to be recorded in that office. Well, I managed to cause a little diversion, involving a cup of tea and a number of sugar lumps, and some papers from the nearest file just happened to slip inside my bag. These are those papers.'

She spread out a sheaf of type-written pages on the desk and Illya glanced through them.

'These are field-trip accounts,' he said, a wrinkle of confusion on his forehead. 'Anthropological studies, archaeological digs, artefact collection...'

'To all these exotic locations, for a museum that specialises in British history?'

'I take it you've found a connection with something?'

'Well, it's not much, but just look at the places they've been: Britain, yes, but China, the Amazon, India...'

'So?'

'All areas of high, um, shall we say, available, population. We sent a few agents out to some of the sites. They all reported large numbers of locals going missing. Presumably taken by Thrush.'

'Where to?'

'As far as we can ascertain, back here. Only then the trail goes cold, and even so, we still don't know _why_ they've brought them here, only that it's got something to do with those machines they've got on the shop floor. The first shipments of both arrived at practically the same time.'

'So what's our next move?'

'I have an idea there's a way down to whatever they've got underground from that office. I was never left alone in there and they were nervous. Like they didn't want me in there.'

'So why hold the interviews, if they already knew they were using their own men?'

'As far as we can tell, it's simply a case of falling foul of the unions.' She smirked. 'Somebody noticed they had jobs going that weren't being advertised and raised merry hell. I don't know who was in the right, but I suppose Thrush thought it would be easier just to play along and give them a show.'

'So we get into the office, find our way downstairs and see what we can find?'

'Does that sound like a useful thing to do?'

'Why? Do you have a better plan?'

'Not particularly, I just thought, something more...' she blushed, 'Sorry, it's just, since you're from the New York office, I thought you'd...'

'I'm afraid not. We get the same training, you know. However, I think we should take a look at some of those machines. My partner, Napoleon, is spending some time as a historically-minded tourist. He'll have spent the best part of two days wandering around that place by tonight.'

'Two days? What do you do in there for two days?'

Illya shook his head,

'Don't ask me. Napoleon has an unbelievably high boredom threshold when he has a role to play around with. He nearly drove me to distraction yesterday. Anyway, he should be able to tell us if there's anything untoward to be seen there. Then we can go and take a closer look at anything worth seeing.' She nodded,

'Come to the other briefing room. I have had them pull out all the plans and schematics for the streets and surrounding buildings. Perhaps if we can get an idea of what is going on underground in the other buildings, it will give us a better knowledge of the layout, or at least the extent of Thrush's underground rooms.' She led him down the corridor and they spent the rest of the afternoon working on the maps, gaining a rough outline of the available underground area and the distinct impression that if it was anything substantial, it was going to involve some very long, very convoluted tunnels.

Illya was sat in a restaurant with Mary, quietly discussing the most inconspicuous details of their basic plan over their first course, when his communicator whistled. He opened it in the darkness of the booth.

'Kuryakin here.'

'Where are you?'

'At a restaurant, Napoleon. With Mary.'

'What are you doing?'

'Eating, um, paté.'

'You coming back later?'

'Well I wasn't planning on spending the night on the street. Found anything today?'

'Not much. I'll tell you when you get back. Well, have fun.' The line went dead, and Illya rebuilt the pen and slipped it back into his pocket, frowing slightly. Napoleon sounded irritable. Oh well, it was hardly surprising if he'd just spent another almost fruitless day at the museum. He returned to his meal, but it was hard to get the tone of Napoleon's voice out of his head and Mary soon gave up on trying to discuss their plans any further.

Illya dropped Mary at her home before ordering the taxi back to his hotel. He found Napoleon in the bath, apparently soaking off a nasty dose of 'sightseer's back'. The bathroom door was ajar and Napoleon called out as he entered the suite,

'Illya? That you?'

'Who else?'

'I trust you had an enjoyable dinner?'

'Not really. Food was appaling.'

'What about Mary? She nice?'

'She's not your type, Napoleon.'

There was a watery, swooshing sound, like somebody sitting up to protest.

'I never said she was.'

'She's good at her job. We were talking business.'

'Ah. Good. Get anywhere?'

'Only so far as to plan how to get into the basements. Really we were waiting for your report before we made any final decisions.'

'Let me get out of here and I'll go through it with you. Have a coffee, it's going cold.'

Illya poured a cup, listening to the sploshing, creaking and dripping of Napoleon clambering out of the bath. As the last of the water gurgled away, Napoleon appeared in a hotel-issue bathrobe, towelling his hair with one hand and clutching a whiskey in the other. Illya raised an eyebrow at him.

'I see you left the coffee specially for me,' he said, dripping sarcasm.

'I deserved this. Two days in that place? I think I know everything I ever want to know about British historical artefacts. And, not remotely enough about winged torture vehicles.' He grimaced as he tossed back the whiskey, 'Besides, there's no vodka. You'd be on the wimpy stuff with me.'

'I'll stick to the coffee. I get the feeling I'm going to need my wits about me tomorrow.'

'It'll keep you awake.'

'It wouldn't be the only thing.' Illya took Napoleon's glass from him and set it on a side table. 'Tell me about your day.'

'I didn't know you cared.' Illya let his head tip down a little and Napoleon rubbed his damp face and sighed, 'I spent the whole morning sweet-talking the guides and those crummy actors in the Tudor House to give me a private tour, all the details, everything they knew. Then I spent the afternoon paying for it. I think by now I know everything they know. Which is a surprising amount. Whatever it is they're doing in there, they're doing it properly. I mean, your average Thrush thug wouldn't know a farthingale from a florin, but this lot really know their stuff. I tried to catch them out on a few things. Didn't trip them on a single one. They've either started recruiting university-graduate historians and archaeologists, or they're running the most intensive academic training programme I've ever come across. Either way, I don't see the point yet.'

'And tomorrow?'

'I don't know. I'm not sure I can face another whole day there.'

'You couldn't see any patterns? Any theme to what they have there?'

'Not much. It's mostly artefacts that have been dug up in this country. A few things from continental Europe too. I don't know whether it means anything, but a lot of what they've got is what they call "ritual". I mean, they've got a few bowls and tools and what have you, but most of it is the sort of thing you can't really place. I thought it was just because that's what survives – you know, thinking about it, it's the sort of stuff that ends up in graves or specially buried. Now though, looking back, I'm not sure it wasn't a little over-represented. I must have read a hundred times "Ritual artefact, purpose unknown."'

'You think they're doing it for a purpose?'

'Well there must be a reason for the collection. There's no need for it as a cover – if they wanted a front, the stuff in back is much more attractive as an...attraction.'

'Okay. We'll keep our eyes open for anything like that when we go in tomorrow night.'

'Have you figured out how to _get_ in?'

'The entrance must be somewhere in that ground-level office. There is nowhere else in the building that is private enough for them to go in and out. On the other hand, I'm sure there is another entrance somewhere else. We looked at the plans of the area and it looks like there are probably tunnels leading from this building, but I'm not sure in what direction. I think it will take too long to try to find any other entrances. We have very little idea of the security systems, however. Perhaps you could turn your prodigious talents towards conning some attractive young lady or other into telling you all about it tomorrow.' Illya looked up at Napoleon through his eyebrows, a wicked smirk on his lips. Napoleon raised his eyebrows and pouted at him.

'I think that would be a more interesting project than another day spent looking at "Kaniac Crystals" and "Loess-borne shell wands".'

'Kaniac Crystals? Kaniac...Kaniac...' Illya drummed his fingers on the table.

'Ringing a bell?'

'Perhaps. I can't quite place it. Do they have many?'

'About forty, I'd say, of varying quality.'

'That's a lot of crystals for a museum that's meant to have a bit of everything in it.'

'True, true. I'll check up.'

'I'll see if the London office can find anything on those crystals for us.'

'And can I expect your company at the end of another long day at the coal-face, or are you heading off for another cosy tête-à-tête with the lovely Mary?' He was smiling, but it seemed rather forced. Illya frowned,

'I am working with her on this, as per my assignment. Why are you suddenly so interested? I would have thought you would welcome the chance to go hopping off to some lively night-spot or other and pick up a girl without me trailing around behind you.'

'Oh, maybe you're right. It was only that we haven't really been on an assignment together for a while. Seems Mr Waverly's been keeping us on opposite sides of the globe, the last few months. I don't know, I suppose I just wanted to catch up a bit.'

Illya raised an eyebrow, but didn't push any further. Napoleon went on,

'As a matter of fact, I might be lucky enough to escape the confines of the museum tomorrow afternoon anyway.'

'Why's that?'

'One of the tour guides suggested that if I was so interested, I might like to go along with him on a field trip tomorrow.'

'He knows who you are.'

'No. I don't think so. That's what's odd. I'm pretty sure he's genuine. Oh, he's Thrush all right, but he is also, possibly first and foremost, an archaeologist. You could tell. The way he talked about it, the enthusiasm. It was like you talking about your favourite music, completely potty about it.' Illya hid a smile. 'Maybe Thrush don't quite realise the extent to which they've compromised their security, having people like him on board.'

'But I presume he's not high-level Thrush? I mean, he can't be, they're all so indoctrinated...'

'No. I think he's not much more than a sort of go-between, if that. Probably loyal to Thrush in the way a typing-pool secretary is loyal to her employer – you know, will do her best for the company, but when it comes down to it, doesn't much care what they're doing so long as the pay's fair and the coffee's hot.'

'A liability, you mean.'

'Yes, but I don't think they know. I suspect this little set-up is something of a personal project. A little ego-builder, or a boom-or-bust for someone or other who feels a bit passed-over. Either way, I'm getting a free trip to the collecting point. Perhaps I'll be able to find out what it is they're doing at their British sites.'

'Well don't get carried away. Your man may be an enthusiast snared in their net, but he _is_ still Thrush, and that's still a Thrush site you're going to. Expect trouble.'

Napoleon sighed,

'Yes, thank-you, mother. I'll be careful.'

'Don't want to have to waste a day coming to rescue you.'

Napoleon chose to ignore this last remark, instead puttering back to the bathroom to clean his teeth before calling in his report and turning in for the night. Illya sat in the pool of light cast by his bedside lamp and watched the back of Napoleon's head on the pillow. Something was going on. Something strange. Napoleon never questioned what needed to be done on an assignment. If it took injury or the odd death, or a lot of time spent in somebody's company, or their bed, it was part of the deal. They both knew that, Napoleon better than Illya, in fact. So why was he being so awkward?

And it was awkward. It was making Illya feel bad about spending the time, the important overtime, with Mary. Not that he wouldn't rather have spent the time with Napoleon if work allowed. He was right; they had been apart far too much recently. He missed his partner, though he would never admit it. Then again, in the usual way of things, Napoleon would never admit to missing Illya. Which was almost what he had just done. Neverytheless, he was picking at a sore spot with Illya and it was making Illya nervy. He slipped under the covers, pulling them up to his ears, and snaked out a hand to flick off the lamp.

'Spakoinoi nochi,' he barely muttered to himself. A second of self-indulgence to make him feel better. It didn't work and he lay in the flickering image-whirl of half-sleep for hours before finally dropping off an hour before dawn.

Illya was at London headquarters at eight-thirty the next morning. A morning's research into Kaniac crystals showed up only one useful piece of information. He took lunch in the canteen with Mary.

'They actually stop electricity from working. But how?' Illya drummed his spoon on the table and considered.

'Something about the crystalline structure. It resonates with the electromagnetic field and sort of bounces back a countering field which interrupts the flow of electrons. At least, that's the best description I've been able to come up with. But they're not very powerful. For it to work at all, they have to be practically touching the electrical conductor and they can't stop very high voltages. If Thrush intend to use them to cause disruption in any major way, they must have found a way to magnify the effect, or increase the original power of the crystals.'

She nodded,

'I wouldn't put it past them. If there's anyone out there who knows how to do it, I'm sure Thrush has found them. I'm just surprised there's nothing at all on our files about it.' She sipped her coffee, looking over the rim at Illya, who felt a little jolt of surprise as he realised that she was giving him one of _those_ looks. The looks that said, _I like you. A lot._ He pretended not to notice and tucked into his apple pie, wondering what Napoleon would do if he saw _that look_ directed at his partner by another agent. _Probably smile that devastating smile and win her over to his side, which is obviously what he'd want_, thought Illya ruefully. Then he cursed himself for letting Napoleon's current peculiarity interfere with a perfectly delicious slice of pie. Mary was talking again,

'I'm going to head home to get some sleep. If we're going to try to get in there tonight, I think I'm going to need it. What time are we going in?'

'You say it closes at seven-thirty?'

'Well, that's when the doors close. I saw the last member of staff leave at seven-fifty. I'm not saying they had all gone, of course, I'm sure they had plenty of people left in there, but they were in for the night.'

'So we'll try for seven-fifteen. I want to try to get in while the doors are still open. It might be tricky to get past the front desk, but hopefully the guard will be bored by then and we can slip by. The less work we have to do to get inside the building, the better; it's too built up around there to make much of a disturbance at that time of night.'

'Once we're in, we head for the office and go in once we're sure it's empty,' Mary said, recalling the plan they had worked out yesterday. 'What about the security? Napoleon is looking at it today?'

'Yes. Only he's going to have to have done it by now, he's meant to be going on a field trip with one of their people this afternoon. I just hope he has a chance to call in and let me know what he's found. I don't dare call him. His communicator going off in the middle of a Thrush work-party could be a little tricky to explain, especially since I'm sure the supervisors on that site will not be the low-level skivvies his helpful friend seems to be.'

'Okay. Assuming we don't have a clue about security, if the office remains occupied, you create a diversion while I go in and scout out the entrance. You disable any possible threats and join me in the office. We descend together if possible, find out what they're doing, take a few photos and get out. Home for breakfast.'

'Sounds like fun,' said Illya, without a trace of amusement.

'I'm sure it will be,' she replied, businesslike. 'Seven o'clock, by the clock tower at the end of the road?'

'Yes, but slip in behind the statues, I don't want to hang around in full view for too long.'

She nodded and left for home. Illya went back to her empty office and took out the files again. There had to be a reason for the flying machines. He just couldn't figure it out yet.


	3. Act II

**Act II – 'I thought I'd keep shooting at them for a while.'**

Mary met Illya by the clock tower as arranged. Both dressed in standard U.N.C.L.E.-issue blacks, they crept into the shadows behind a statue.

'Any news on the security?' asked Mary.

'Not a word,' replied Illya, unable to keep the slight edge of concern out of his voice, 'He must be too close to them to risk using his communicator. I hope,' he added under his breath.

They moved stealthily along in the shadow of the wall, pausing before the last run to the door, which remained open in the gloom. At Illya's signal they sped forward, through the door and up to the entrance desk, stopping, crouched below the level of the counter. The man on the desk didn't even look up from his book.

Illya nodded to Mary and signalled where they were to go next. He wished it were Napoleon with him. Signalling would have been so much easier. Years of working together had made understanding each others' minute hand and facial signals second-nature. Communicating accurately with Mary required more deliberate signals, more time they didn't have. Not her fault at all, but still...

They crouch-ran over to a large suit of armour, behind which deep shadows stretched the length of the wall towards a doorway leading to the corridor on which the office was situated. Illya moved, cat-like along the wall, praying she was following his steps, and peered around the edge of the doorway into the bright corridor beyond. He didn't much fancy risking the well-lit hallway, but it was entirely possible that this room would be sealed off from it when the museum shut, leaving them in the dark with nowhere useful to go.

According to the architect's original plans for the building, there was a small room behind the second door on the right down that corridor. It could only be a small store-room, it wasn't big enough for more. They could probably hide in there, if it was still as seen on plans nearly a hundred years old, and if it was not locked.

He crouched, perfectly still, and listened. No sounds came from the corridor, not even the faint rustle of clothes from someone still sitting in the office with the door open. He leaned forward and took a quick peek down the corridor. Empty. He nodded once and sprang across to the second door. It opened without effort and he slipped inside, pulling Mary in after him and, making sure there was a handle on their side, shut the door.

They stood in the darkness, trying to breathe quietly. There was a sound outside the cupboard and they stood silently, squeezed together in the darkness. Voices passed the door, chatting about this and that, calling goodbye; the sound of workers going home for the night. For ten minutes, groups and individuals tramped past the door. When the last one had passed, they waited for another five minutes to be sure. Illya fished a torch out of his pocket and shone it around, gazing up at the shelving overhead. Mary sighed, so quietly he almost didn't hear it, so quietly it was clear she did not mean to be heard. He shone the torch at her, careful not to blind her. She seemed distracted, gazing at a point just above his head.

'What is it?' he asked, turning to look at the spot. There was nothing there. 'Are you all right?'

She nodded, considered for a moment, then said,

'You have no idea how pretty your hair is when the light catches it like that.'

He tutted, half-irritably, though secretly he was rather pleased. If he had a single vanity, it was his hair. He let an unconscious hand drift up to pat it back into place while he looked around the rest of the store. It was about four feet wide and three deep. Shelves lined the back wall and carried all the usual sorts of products – bales of paper towels, reams of paper, boxes of pencils, tins of cleaning powder and bundles of cloths. On the side walls were brackets, holding a mop, a broom and a stepladder, though most of the brackets were empty. Looking up, the ceiling proved to be a metal grille. _Curious_, thought Illya, and shone his torch up to take a look through. Above the store-room, cables reached up into the blackness. He frowned.

'Why cables? Is that for the lighting? I don't see a light,' Mary said. He shook his head,

'No. Not a light. I think,' he said, putting a foot on the lowest shelf and starting to climb, 'that we might well have found ourselves in the elevator.' He lost his grip on the shelf above him, grabbed at one of the wall-brackets and leant his weight on it. It moved, and the sound of clanking machinery accompanied the sudden stomach-flipping descent of the room.

'I think you might be right,' she said, clinging to a shelf. Illya dropped back to the floor. 'And there was I thinking the entrance must be in the office,' she added with a tinge of self-annoyance.

'Oh, I'm sure it is,' said Illya, showing her his hand, which was covered in dust. 'I don't think this gets used very much. Must be a second exit for emergencies, the controls are filthy. Looks like we stumbled on the side door.' The room banged to a halt at the bottom and they both winced at the noise, 'Unfortunately, I suspect we might have alerted the welcoming committee. Gun ready?' he whispered, turning off his torch.

'Yes,' she whispered back.

Illya drew his own gun and put a hand on the door-knob. He waited until he was ready, then threw the door open, gun ready to fire at the first person he saw.

'But there was no-one there.

'Well, that's something of an anti-climax,' he muttered, stepping out into the open.

They were in a stubby little dead-end corridor lit with fluorescent strips set into dull concrete. Illya tiptoed to the corner and peered around. The main corridor, too, was entirely empty.

'Looks like everyone's gone home,' he whispered, returning to the door where Mary stood ready with her gun. 'We should find the main rooms if we go south – that way.' He gestured and she nodded. Together they crept back to the corner and darted down the corridor, Mary following their plan by sweeping the walls and ceiling for security cameras, but seeing nothing. They passed many doors with glass panels in them, but all seemed to be small offices, whatever was going on down here, it seemed to be staggering under the weight of an over-stuffed administration. Illya wanted a lab. They could spend all night rifling through papers and not find anything more interesting than a load of Thrush tax-returns that U.N.C.L.E already had. A lab would tell them what they were actually doing here, provided it was something practical, and it had to be.

At the end of the corridor was a sharp turn to the right. They nodded to each other. They were at the edge of the vertical space below the building above. From here on, whatever tunnels there were must be later additions, winding around and under the foundations of the other surrounding buildings. Rounding the corner, they saw a large set of double doors on the right. The top half of the doors was again glass, and Illya eased his head up high enough to look through.

'Empty,' he mouthed. Mary nodded and they opened the doors and went in.

The lab was all tidied up for the night. Illya approved thoroughly of the level of order in the place. Another indicator that the people working here knew what they were doing. On benches round the walls, the objects of their studies were ranged in racks. One bench was filled with ranks of boxes containing the strange Kaniac crystals. The next bench along contained vials of something dark and viscous. A third bench carried the shell wands Napoleon had mentioned. It was clear that however many of these they had on display upstairs, as with so many museums, the main collection was down here.

A central work bench contained two complicated-looking machines. Mary hurried to look at one, Illya approached the other. They stared at them, trying to find a clue as to their use, glancing over their shoulders at the door from time to time and hoping that whatever security cameras were down here were not being monitored. After a while, Mary gave a little sound of understanding and beckoned Illya over. He bent his head close so she could speak quietly – there was no point in drawing unnecessary attention to themselves.

'Here.' She pointed. 'There's a slot which would take one of those vials, I'm sure. This is some sort of centrifuge I think, but it seems to have a chamber for whatever they separate out. There is something pointing at the chamber. Looks like some sort of electron gun or something like that. There's a tap on the other side. Whatever is in these vials is separated out in this machine, treated in some way, then removed for use at the other side.'

'Shall we try it?' asked Illya, already moving to the bench to fetch a vial. She nodded. There was no point in describing what little they knew of this machine to the scientists back at headquarters, it could be anything; but if they took before and after samples...

Illya pressed the vial into the slot and Mary fiddled with the few controls. At last the vial sank into the heart of the machine and the hum of the spinning centrifuge could be heard. It stopped and Mary prodded another button. There was a momentary electrical _crack! _and they jumped back. Annoyed with himself, Illya returned to the machine and turned the tap, draining the liquid into a second vial. He replaced the cap and put it into his pocket with one of the original vials.

'What about this one?' Mary asked, looking at the other contraption on the desk. Illya back to it, rubbing his chin. The idea of something fitting into it seemed worth pursuing, so he bent down and opened a small hatch at the side. Inside was a padded cradle, just big enough for one of the crystals. He closed it again and saw Mary looking at him quizzically – she obviously expected him to try it out like the other one. He shook his head,

'If this does what I think, we could find ourselves in the dark with no power to anything if we do it wrong. I think I'd rather just describe this one. He fished out his lighter-camera and took a few shots. Then he picked up a crystal from its box and hefted it in his hand.

Instantly he realised the table was alarmed: weight sensitive. He cursed his carelessness and stuffed the crystal into his pocket. No point returning it, the damage was done. Where was the guard, that was the question. Did this place have a security clampdown, or was it really as open as it seemed? They ran to the doors, belting through to be met by a single guard – who was easily dispatched with a chop to the neck from Illya – and another guard who appeared from around the corner behind them, grabbing Mary's arms, twisting the gun out of her hand, holding his own gun to her head. She fell silent, eyes steely, training kicking in, looking for an opportunity to break his grip, duck out of the way of the gun, take him out.

Illya turned and saw the guard. The two of them eyed each other over Mary's head. Her black outfit blended into the guard's own black jumpsuit, making her body disappear. Illya had been right, however, this was not your ordinary Thrush guard. For the most part they were soulless thugs, a band of loosely-reined killers, waiting for a chance to hurt somebody, anybody. When they caught you, they enjoyed it. This guard was not enjoying it, If Illya was any judge, he was terrified. On the other hand, a frightened man with a gun was just as dangerous, if not more so, than a man comfortable with what he was doing.

Illya took a tentative step forward, hands raised above his head, gun fallen to the floor. The guard took a step back, dragging Mary with him.

'Keep back...and, keep your hands up. I'm watching you. One move in the wrong direction and the girl gets it.' Illya groaned inwardly: had Thrush taken to training its recruits with pulp gangster novels?

'I'll stay still,' he said quietly, 'What do you want me to do?' The guard looked around frantically. His colleague lay sprawled on the floor, of no help whatsoever. It couldn't have been more obvious that there was no-one else in the building. He pointed with his nose at the door next to Illya,

'In there, slowly,' he said, following closely as Illya obeyed. Inside, the guard made him empty his trouser pockets onto the desk, then pointed him into a corner of the small office and shoved Mary into the desk chair, pushing her tightly against the desk so that he could keep the gun on her while holding her in place, trapped, with his knee. This left his other hand free to use the communication system.

Illya watched him closely. The guard was as distracted as he was likely to get, but he was also holding the gun tightly into the base of Mary's skull, his finger already tight on the trigger, the safety off. The amount of time it would take Mary to get her head out of the way might be too long, he couldn't risk it, not when there would surely be a better opportunity.

The guard had managed to raise someone on the system. They were clearly several ranks higher than him and seemed to have a little more of the Thrush mentality about them. Their voice came crackly and high out of the mesh speaker.

'In the laboratory? Who are they? Oh, never mind. Lock them up in the cells down by the dock entrance. Let them stew in their own juices till morning. I'm sure we'll find out who they are easily enough then. A pity the American who accompanied Marsden to the dig today has already gone home...a little coincidental, don't you think? Two different sets of people taking such a charming interest in our work during the same week? But then, he is such an _enthusiast_, I'm sure he will return. We will hold these two until he does. Lock them up.' The line clicked off and the guard pulled Mary to her feet and gestured Illya ahead of him, down the corridor. Illya blessed the complacency of the person on the communicator. Not only had he given them time to make their escape, but he had told them that Napoleon was alive, and free to be contacted. Given the amateurishness of this guard, Illya was pretty sure he would omit to remove Illya or Mary's own communicators. All thoughts of attacking the guard were pushed aside. No point in courting death when you could send for Napoleon.

Down the corridor, back past the lab, down a further stretch of corridor, two turns to the right, one to the left, and they were at a barred door. Illya raised an eyebrow to the guard, who muttered,

'Get inside. Put yourself in those handcuffs.' Illya entered and saw three sets of handcuffs hanging from the wall. _Same old same old,_ he thought to himself. The guard was watching him, still grinding the gun into the side of Mary's head. Illya reached up and clicked a handcuff onto each of his own wrists, considering cheerfully that at least here he had some influence over how tight they were.

The guard pushed Mary over to the wall, holstered his gun and swiftly secured her wrists in the set of cuffs next to Illya's. He turned to him, reached up and clicked his cuffs tighter. _Rats!_ thought Illya.

'And don't think of making a noise. No-one can hear you down here, anyway.' He left, and Illya rolled his eyes at this further evidence of the man's lack of imagination.

The guard's footsteps became fainter and fainter and Mary and Illya were left listening to each other's breathing.

'I think I have some barrel-shaped dents in my head,' said Mary eventually, when it became clear that Illya was not going to ask if she was all right.

'At least they're not bullet-shaped. Our friend was a little nervous, don't you think?' He looked across at her and she nodded, hanging in the cuffs, trying to reach her communicator, but it was tucked into her waistband, too far away. Illya looked at his own, tucked into the top pocket the guard hadn't even spotted. He lowered his head and grabbed at it with his teeth. It came free easily and he stood there, flipping it up and down between his lips. He couldn't reach up to get it in his hands, and he couldn't open it with his teeth. He looked at Mary and spoke through taut lips around the pen,

'Ool aff oo ell ee geh ih o-eh.' She stared at him, uncomprehendingly. His temper started to fray. Napoleon would have known exactly what he was saying; actually, would probably have responded in kind, no matter how unnecessary. The thought restored his equilibrium somewhat and he leaned his head towards her, flicking the end of the pen towards her face. At last she understood and leaned forward to grab the other end between her lips. They wrestled it between them, until the two ends separated. Illya leaned back, twiddling his end around until it faced the other way. He swung back towards her and after a lot of fumbling and bashed noses, they managed to put the communicator together and pull out the aerial.

Now Mary had the end of the aerial dangling from her teeth and the microphone end was lying on her chest. No good. If they got a signal at all, it was not likely to be good. Having rustling fabric, considerable distance and Mary's heartbeat getting in the way of Illya's voice would not help.

'Can you lift it up?' asked Illya. She nodded and tensed her lips, bringing it up horizontally. Illya took his end between his lips and jerked it to make her let go. He remembered doing this once with Napoleon, in very similar circumstances, trying to call in help from a local agent. Napoleon had wanted to make the call, even though he was the one with the pen in the best position for Illya to speak, so they had made the swap, lips and cheeks brushing against each other. They had both apologised automatically, but Illya remembered it as having been very comforting, the warmth of Napoleon's breath moving across his lips in that cold, miserable cell.

He shook himself out of his daydream and moved back towards her, pushing the pen sideways towards her lips. She understood and took the pen from him. In the moment that the corners of their lips touched, Illya let his eyes close for a second, then opened them quickly, hoping she didn't notice and choose to interpret it as encouragement for anything she felt would be...

'Open Channel D.' There was silence. Mary rattled the pen up and down. Illya tried again,

'Open Channel D. Napoleon, can you hear me?' There was a crackling noise and Napoleon's voice could be heard very faintly,

'Only just, go ahead. Where are you? Are you okay?'

'Yes, yes, I'm fine, except for being chained to a wall in an underground cell, everything is perfectly rosy.' There was stifled chuckle at the other end. Evidently Napoleon was confident the danger was not too serious.

'You really do like getting yourself chained up every once in a while, don't you.' Illya glanced at Mary, daring her to show signs of laughing.

'Look, Napoleon, not for me, but for the sake of the young lady with whom I am currently incarcerated, perhaps you would like to come and spring us from our delightful abode. I'm sure she'll be very grateful.' Napoleon laughed again, a crackle on the line.

'Okay, I've just about got an accurate fix on you. Leave your communicator open, it'll make it quicker to find you.'

'I was going to. I'm not going through _that_ charade again.'

'Okay, on my way. Anything to watch out for?'

'Not much. Hardly any security, unless they're really playing it cool. Two guards; one we knocked out, the other took us by surprise but he's a novice, you can take him easily. Once you're in, go to the store-room, second door from the door from the main museum. It's an elevator, pull on the wall bracket with my hand prints on it,' he finished peevishly.

'Right. Just hang in there.'

'Is that supposed to be funny?' asked Illya, but Napoleon had already closed his communicator. Illya grabbed his own between his lips, as far from Mary's as he could, and dropped it back into his pocket, still open.

'What did you mean,_ I'd_ be very grateful?' she asked curiously. Illya waved a restrained hand in a dismissive sort of way,

'Oh, you know. Napoleon's very...well, you know, easily flattered. If a blonde of the female persuasion thanks him for rescuing her, he takes it as read that if he had time he could...' he tailed off, embarrassed. He hadn't quite meant to say that. It was almost true, but it wasn't fair. Napoleon was a gentleman. Although it was possible he really did think like that, he certainly wouldn't force himself on a girl, which is how it may have sounded...

'What about blonds of the male persuasion?' Mary asked, then her face fell as she realised what _she_ had almost said, 'I mean, I don't mean...But he'd rescue you anyway, right?' Illya considered for a moment.

'Yes. If he thought I couldn't get out of it myself and he didn't have anything better to do.' Now that really wasn't fair, but he wasn't about to correct himself. There were plenty of occasions when Napoleon had hurried to his rescue when Mr Waverly wasn't looking. Just as there were countless times when Illya had found himself walking into the lions' den to make sure his partner got out in one piece. U.N.C.L.E. orders generally discouraged endangering two agents when the one already in danger was expendable, but somehow they always managed to bend the rules just enough to help each other out. Perhaps it was that little ache of fear when Illya knew Napoleon was in danger. It nagged at him, completely unprofessional, but insistent and never allayed until they were side by side once more.

The pair of them lapsed into silence. There was nothing to be said. If Napoleon could get in, they might get out, collect the evidence and make it back to analyse the stuff. If he didn't...well, they would have to do something when the guard or his masters returned.

A good half-hour later, they heard the soft pad of feet along the corridor and Illya strained his eyes out into the brightness beyond the door. The lock clicked and Napoleon entered, a cut on his temple, but grinning as he looked them up and down.

'Your friend had woken up. I've stuck the pair of them in an office together, but I don't suppose they'll bother anyone till morning. There was someone sniffing around upstairs, but they didn't see me. I think we should be able to get out without causing any more upset.'

'We can just walk out?' asked Mary, wishing he'd release her hands, which were starting to go numb.

'Well, we're clear from here back to the top of the tunnel, so we should have a good ten minutes to compose ourselves before we start back. Shall I?' He gestured at the cuffs chaining their hands to the wall and pulled out a pin as he sauntered up to Illya.

Illya leaned closer as Napoleon worked at the cuffs, and murmured in his ear,

'You know, seeing what a gentleman you usually purport to be, I am surprised you have forgotten that unless we are actually being attacked, it is good manners to release the lady first.' Napoleon considered for a brief moment before answering.

'Yes, but you see, Illya,' he murmured back, 'If I am going to have anybody sneak up on me and surprise me from behind, I'd rather it was you.' He gave him a half wink and patted him smartly on the cheek as the second cuff released. Illya watched him unchain Mary, rubbing at his own wrists to try to restore a little feeling.

They ran along the corridor to the lab, where Illya flung out his hand to stop Napoleon. He looked through the glass in the door, the lab was still empty, but there on the table were the two little vials and the crystal. He smiled to himself: helpful guard, returning the property to its rightful room. He went in, grabbed the three items and stuffed them back into his pockets.

'Ready?' asked Napoleon. He nodded and they returned to the store-room, pulling on the bracket to operate it. Napoleon's face became very serious as the room rose.

'There is someone up there,' he said softly, 'armed and not very happy with us. I think they've come to work out how we got in. Luckily, they didn't shut the door too well when they arrived, which is how _I_ got in. Watch your backs.' The room stopped and Napoleon opened the door a crack, then fully.

'Clear,' he whispered. They crept to the museum proper and slid into the darkness thankfully. They edged around the room, looking for any sign of the Thrush agent.

Suddenly the door to the corridor through which they had come slammed shut and a voice rang out among the exhibits, echoing through the, now total, darkness.

'Good evening gentlemen, and lady. I thought we might have an escape planned. Some of my colleagues are rather lax in the field of security. You cannot see me, but I can see you quite clearly with my night-sight glasses. Perhaps you'd all like to throw your guns out here and come out with your hands up.'

Napoleon fumbled in the dark for Illya's shoulder and put his lips to his ear, barely whispering,

'She's bluffing. We're behind some sort of display case. Feel your way to the end and take a shot at her. I'm going to find us some light. Unfortunately we're still at a disadvantage.' Illya nodded, his ear brushing up and down over Napoleon's lips, and felt him leave his side. Stretching out a hand, he touched the display case, which was, indeed, in front of them, and crawled to the end. As he got there, Napoleon found a light switch. The cases around the walls were suddenly illuminated, casting a dull glow over the rest of the room. Napoleon was heading back across the room, straight through the line of sight of the Thrush by the far wall, who had her gun raised, ready to fire. Napoleon was between Illya and the Thrush agent, he shouldn't fire, but if he didn't, there was another bullet waiting for Napoleon. He squeezed the trigger. A bullet whizzed past Napoleon's ear and slammed into the wall next to the Thrush agent's shoulder. The agent ducked down out of sight and Napoleon dove behind the nearest display case.

'Perhaps the next time you'd like to try to get your bullet a little closer to my head?' Napoleon called quietly across, nodding sarcastic encouragement at him. Illya gave him his best unreadable hooded-eyes look and reloaded his gun.

'Perhaps. If you don't get it out of the way more quickly.'

'Well I...' Napoleon started, but was cut off by another barrage of bullets from out of the shadowy exhibits. He ducked down behind the nearest suit of armour and scooted back to Illya. 'Any ideas?'

'I thought I'd keep shooting at her for a while,' said Illya with a smile, knowing how much it would infuriate Napoleon. He got the look he was after and passed him the gun he had just reloaded for him. 'Those items from the lab; I think they should tell us quite a lot about what they're up to. At any rate, I don't want to risk losing them. I vote we get out of here as quickly as we can and get back to HQ, never mind messing around with this woman.'

'Your call,' said Napoleon, and turned to Mary.

'Can you get around the edge to the outside door while Illya and I cover you? Shoot the lock off if you have to, just get us a clear run-out from here.'

'Right,' she said, crawling to the back of the display case.

Illya fired at the case where the Thrush agent had hidden. She dashed out from behind it, trying to get to the desk. Napoleon's bullets in front of her stopped her and she turned and fired. The bullet grazed Napoleon's cheek and he winced, slapping a hand to his face and ducking back down. Illya fired and seemed to catch the Thrush in the leg. She stumbled towards the desk and dropped out of sight. Mary reached the door, kicked it open and stepped outside, hurrying to get out of the rectangle of light before turning back to cover Illya and Napoleon. They got up and ran to the door, squeezing off a few shots to ensure they were not followed.

Outside, the ran down the street, turning corner after corner until they found themselves in a back alley near London Headquarters. They slowed down, panting, Napoleon instinctively raising his hand to his wounded face. Illya halted beside him and grabbed his hand, pulling it away to inspect the damage.

'I think you'll live,' he said dryly, and much more calmly than he felt. Napoleon looked at the blood on his hand,

'I no longer have need of your services when it comes to getting bullets near my head. Just so you know.' He grimaced as the cool night air whispered across the grazed flesh. Mary wrinkled her nose at it,

'Come on, we can go in, drop off that stuff Illya's got, get you patched up, then go back to my place for a snack. If you want, and provided you can be trusted to act as each others' chaperones.' She looked from one to the other, laughed at their discomfiture and led the way back to the entrance to Headquarters.

It was bliss to get back to the homeliness of Mary's apartment and sit down for a moment while Napoleon answered the call of nature. Illya rolled his shoulders, trying to work out some of the stiffness in his neck, and was rewarded with the arrival of a pair of small, soft hands, working firmly on the muscles beneath his turtleneck. He lolled his head back into the massage and allowed a smile to sneak onto his face as he felt the stiffness easing away. It really was a fine way to cap the day, provided, of course, that somebody planned on feeding him shortly. He turned his head slightly to look at Napoleon coming back to take his place at the table and pour himself a drink with Mary's blessing. Napoleon was facing him, with a look on his face that...it was _that_ look again. That disgusted-amused look.

'How's it feel?' Illya asked.

'It hurts,' replied Napoleon, and for some reason he couldn't pin down, Illya didn't feel he was talking about the wound.


	4. Act III

**Act III – 'And then I came down here to see you.'**

Mary met Illya at reception the next morning.

'Sleep well?' she asked. Illya looked at her questioningly,

'Is that relevant?'

'Could be. What's Napoleon doing today?'

'Searching for another way in. As far as I know. He was a bit sketchy this morning.' His eyes wandered around the room and she frowned.

'You're worried,' she said matter-of-factly. Illya practically growled at her and she held up a calming hand,

'You may be right about those crystals,' she said in a rush, 'I got a report back this morning from Research. They're sure that machine we saw can somehow magnify the effect. They're working on it. Are you going to work on that stuff in the vials? I spoke to Wenman in the labs and he's given you the all clear, so you don't have to wait for them to check up.'

'Thank-you,' Illya replied cautiously. 'I'll pick up a book I need first.' She watched him head off down the corridor, his hair bouncing slightly in counterpoint to his footsteps. She picked up her own file and went to work in her office.

* * *

Illya had been given free run of the lab and was in his element, so engrossed in his work that he did not hear Napoleon stepping up behind him. He jumped as Napoleon's chin came to rest on his shoulder.

'What are you doing?' they both asked at once.

'_I_ am trying to get some work done,' said Illya, irritated that he had been interrupted and crept up upon, and rather shaken by Napoleon's unnecessary proximity.

'I've come to help.'

'You?' asked Illya incredulously.

'I think I know what you've got there. Uh, the before-vial, at any rate.' Illya spun around, then took an apologetic step back as he found himself nose to nose with Napoleon.

'What? Did you see them making it?'

'I saw them...collecting it. And I wouldn't put it too near your nose like that, God only knows what it comprises.'

'Well?!'

'It's, ah, grave liquor, I think Marsden called it. Kind of gooey stuff, they were getting it out of these lead-lined coffins. Hundreds and hundreds of years old, he said, but still kinda...moist, if you know what I mean.'

'Yes, thank-you Napoleon, I do know what grave liquor is. Ugh.' He put the vial back in a stand and wiped his hands on his lab coat. 'Well, that saves me some detective work, anyway. Now all I have to find out is what that machine does and why.' He stopped half-way to picking up the other vial and turned, looking extremely puzzled. He saw Napoleon's expression change, his eyes roving over Illya's face, taking in the wide-open blue eyes, the slightly parted lips, little gap between the teeth, tongue peeking out, stopped on the point of speaking. He watched as Napoleon blinked and smiled awkwardly, a little embarrassed laugh.

'Ah, something wrong?' he asked. Illya thought that he could have asked the same question.

'I just wondered what you were doing here. I thought you told Mr Waverly you were going to check out that basement. The missing people and what they're up to?'

'I will be. I just had to come in and look at those plans of the underground layout. I want to find a better way in. I think my face might be too well known up front now.' He looked serious again. 'I think I'd rather do this reconnaissance from the air ducts. I found the last trip to the public areas of that place rather trying.'

'You've looked at the plans?' asked Illya, putting on his glasses and staring intently at the contents of the second vial.

'Yes, uh, Mary gave me the rundown on them.'

'I'm sure you enjoyed that.'

'And then I came down here to see you.' He bent down to look at Illya across the vial. 'Mary thinks she's seen that woman in the files before now. She's going to let us know. I thought I'd hang around until I knew who I was dealing with. I brought you some lunch.' He pushed a paper bag across the bench. Illya looked down at it and suppressed a smile.

'Thank-you. I'm sure whatever it is will go wonderfully with modified grave liquor.' He chanced a real smile, a little spasm of a laugh and Napoleon grinned, turning to leave, raising a hand to wave goodbye over his shoulder, knowing that Illya would not be watching, having gone back to his favourite pots and potions. As he reached the door, Mary came through it. He swiftly lowered his hand, using it instead to usher her politely into the room. She nodded to him and headed for a relatively empty bench, spreading out the file she was carrying on the surface.

'I thought you'd be here Napoleon. I found that woman's file. I recognised her, but I couldn't put a name to her. Her name is Sydney Bloss. She's fairly important in terms of British Thrush, but her actual standing within the organisation has slipped in the past few years. She's had poor results on a number of enterprises and badly fumbled a mission to which she was assigned last year. We had lost track of her recently, the trail went cold in February, but it looks like she's been setting this up. I checked up on her known associates. One of them is heading up that site you went to, Napoleon. Two others are missing. Intelligence suspects they've gone overseas, perhaps to work on that end of the kidnapping or whatever it is they're doing. She's worth taking notice of, probably desperate enough to risk more than you might expect.'

'I see. Thank-you Miss Reed, I'll bear that in mind.' Napoleon touched an invisible hat to her and flicked his eyes up to meet Illya's. 'Don't work too hard.' This time he made it out of the door.

* * *

Four hours of work gave Illya a good idea of what the contents of the second vial were capable of and he put in a call to Napoleon.

Napoleon whispered his responses, as if he were somewhere he might be overheard, but he did not volunteer his whereabouts. Illya didn't bother to ask, he had no doubt he would be told later on.

'It's a serum to turn anyone into a superhuman. At least, I think it is. I'm getting a few tests run. There's something else going on with it as well, but I haven't figured out what it is yet.'

'Hmm, that fits.' He signed off without another word and Illya took a steadying breath. It wasn't always convenient to receive a call in the field.

Illya returned to the hotel room with his bag full of lunch. Somehow he had never quite got around to eating it. Still, it saved paying for dinner and he sat on the bed, spread his notes out around him, pulled out a substantial bread roll from the bag and tucked in, his eyes narrowing with pleasure at his favourite filling.

An hour later there was a knock at the door and Illya sprung to it, holding his gun concealed behind the door as he opened it. Napoleon stood there and he opened the door to let him in, closing it behind him. Napoleon stayed by the door, holding himself up on the frame. His suit was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he looked as if he was about to keel over. Illya was torn between grabbing his arm to hold him upright and moving as far away as he could to escape from the smell of dirty water. He looked down at his own clean clothes and chose the latter course; after all, Napoleon had a perfectly good door to lean on. Napoleon watched him move away and grinned tiredly, he had done the same to Illya enough times to understand the reasoning and take it in good humour. He called across the room; Illya could at the very least hear about his day.

'I've been down in the bowels of that place all afternoon, sneaking round in the ducting and I ache like hell. Then I had to run half a mile down the corridors, scale a wall and swim across the river to escape. And you know what I think of rivers. They're giving those people that superman-stuff. They don't move once they've been given it. Except if you hurt them. I think that explains the equipment in those flying machines,' he gasped.

'What do you mean?'

'The people who receive the liquid become absolute power-houses, but they don't seem to hear anything. It's like they're in a fugue state or something. They're just not all there. But the guards or whatever they were in there kept cracking whips on them, or pinching them with pliers, and giving them orders then. Seems the pain brings them to the surface long enough to hear an order, then they can't do anything but carry it out – it's all they've heard, you see?'

'Maybe, but why the flying machines?'

'I think that's what they've got these people for, to fly them. If they can radio them while the torture devices keep them in enough pain to hear it, I suppose they can order them around.'

'Why not just put electrodes on their toes or something easy like that?' asked Illya, rummaging in his bag for something. He threw a packet of acid drops at Napoleon, who looked at them, bemused,

'Last of the big spenders,' he said, peering into it. 'There's only two left.'

'It's all I've got. You looked like you could use some sugar. So? Why the fancy devices?'

'Who knows? That's Thrush for you. Never use a microdot when a complicated visual coding system spread across four continents will do. Here.' He tossed back the bag and Illya fished out the last acid drop, popping it in his mouth and puckering up at the sharpness. Napoleon yawned, sliding further down the door-frame.

'They're going to fly the first ones in four days time. That's what they were saying down there anyway. From an airfield out in the countryside somewhere. I've got a name for the place, but we'll have to look it up. We should probably go out and take a look tomorrow. If you're not doing anything else.' He gazed steadily at Illya, who shook his head and gave a gentle smile, Napoleon really did look dead on his feet and suddenly he felt sorry for abandoning him by the door. However, he was not about to back down and get his clothes dirty, not when it could actually be helped for once.

'What can I do for you?' he asked softly. Napoleon's head shot up, the look of shock on his face was priceless. Unsolicited offers of help from Illya in non-crisis situations were almost unknown. Sometimes Napoleon thought he took the good-agent premise of making everyone fend for themselves a little too far. Napoleon decided not to dismiss the offer.

'If you run me a hot bath, I'll love you forever,' he said. Illya's eyes, when they met his, were intense and curious, an unreadable expression on his face, but then he nodded and headed for the bathroom and Napoleon heard the water gushing into the tub and smelt the aroma of complimentary hotel bath-salts being added to the water. He pulled off his ruined suit, dropped his dripping holster and useless Special on a chair and peeled his shirt away from his squelchy vest. Illya returned to find a topless Napoleon standing aimlessly in the middle of the room. He put his hands on his chilly, bare upper arms and turned him towards the bathroom, pushing him inside and pulling the door to behind him. He left enough of a gap to let sound carry; they had both rescued each other from imminent drowning before on hearing snores coming from the bathroom and he had no intention of risking Napoleon's life purely in the pursuit of cleanliness.

'Don't fall asleep,' he called. There was a grunt from the bathroom and the slap of wet trousers hitting the tiles.

* * *

The Friday evening, Napoleon met Illya as he was leaving headquarters and grabbed his sleeve,

'Having dinner with me tonight?' Illya shook his head,

'I haven't got time, neither have you. We have to be at a dance on the other side of town in an hour and a half.'

'Why? Not that I particularly mind, but...'

'I've been getting reports all afternoon. A few of the British Agents were doing follow-up on your information about the flight.'

'I know, I asked them to. I...'

'They fly in two days, but they can't do it until they've got some information from a woman they're after at the moment. As far as I could gather, they're deploying a number of those modified crystals across the north of England and will be flying in across the area in these machines. The torture equipment keeps the drugged-up foreign nationals they've acquired on their toes so they can carry out their orders. It's not like we thought though, they can't radio up the orders – nothing electronic is going to be working anywhere in that area. I think the devices are mechanical, run with the power produced by the human engines who can work till they literally run out of energy.'

'But why?'

'Well, I'm guessing the north of England is just a test run. Seems a risky site to pick, but then our Sydney Bloss probably doesn't have the authority to try it out on another Thrush's patch. She's probably aiming to use it on a more profitable area in the near future. Think of it as a giant stun gun. No plane that relies on electricity in any way will be able to function. No communications, no surveillance, no security devices more complicated than a good old man-trap. It would leave even U.N.C.L.E. buildings completely vulnerable, not even the back-up power would work. Those crystals can knock out a whole country if they're placed right, take all the valuables – money or just secrets, whatever they want, but they need a way to get in and out quickly. I guess that's where these fellows come in.'

They reached the hotel and climbed the deserted staircase.

'So we need to destroy that crystal machine?'

'Too late. It's already made enough modified crystals, if I'm right. We need to be at that airfield when they do this test run, but first we need to find this woman.'

'So who is she?'

'A historian. Only just graduated, but already renowned in her field. She produced an important paper for her thesis and she's had offers from all the top universities. Intelligence have information suggesting Thrush will be making her a very tempting offer very soon.'

'I presume we don't want to stop them doing that?'

'No. If we can get a bug on her, find out what they ask her, it might give us a better clue to Thrush's immediate plans. We can't get her on our side first. It's too risky, we have no idea of her personality. We can try to pick her up afterwards, particularly if she takes the Thrush bait, we might be able to turn her into a useful double-agent, but even without that, this is a good chance. We can't risk her knowing anything before she goes. We'll have to get the bug on her secretly.'

'So what's that got to do with this revelry you're expecting me to attend tonight?'

'Well she is meant to be at this dance. Mary's pretty sure she's a level headed sort of girl, so she shouldn't be a threat.'

'Has Mary had her checked out?'

'Napoleon, Mary is a perfectly good agent. She's done everything properly. She's been a great help. At dinner last night, she...'

'Oh, so that's where you were. Again.' It wasn't Napoleon's usual teasing tone. He looked deadly serious, the corner of his mouth turned up in distaste. And suddenly it clicked in Illya's mind.

Jealousy. That was it. Napoleon Solo was jealous. Jealous of Illya? Was the man really that self-centred, that he truly believed that, on top of his already substantial quota of women, he should be entitled to the few Illya managed to snare as well? It didn't feel right. Insanely confident around women Napoleon might be, but he was surely not the sort of man to deny his partner a bit of well-earned fooling about every now and again.

They came to the door of their rooms, Napoleon fishing in his pocket for the key.

'I wasn't aware that Illya Kuryakin preferred blondes,' said Napoleon, slowly, his brown eyes raking Illya's face for a response. Illya looked at his for a moment, then sniffed as an excuse to look away.

'Illya Kuryakin doesn't. Illya Kuryakin is quite fond of brun...' Having half turned away, Illya almost missed the flash of something that crossed Napoleon's face. He flicked his eyes back to try and see it, but it had gone. He went on, 'But Illya Kuryakin takes what he is given and is grateful. Unlike some.' He stopped. That was below the belt and he knew it. Napoleon scratched his head nervously,

'Uh, Illya, what do you mean?' Illya turned to face him, staring into his eyes with an intensity that would have had any lesser man than Napoleon Solo finding something fascinating to look at on their shoes.

'Napoleon, you are very poor at concealing your jealousy.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'If it happens, which I would have thought is a rare enough occurrence for you to overlook, that I have the opportunity to kiss a girl in your presence, the look on your face is priceless. You look like...I don't know...like I am a piece of food on your oh-so-immaculate suit lapel. It took me a long time to work out what it was, but it was so obvious once I had the answer. You are jealous of me if I have a lady to kiss me. You have your pick of almost all the females we meet and yet you still can't bear me to get my hands, or rather, lips, on a single one of them. I would never have thought it. It is unworthy of you.'

There was silence. Napoleon resigned some of his unflappability and chose the coward's way out, staring at his shoes as if the key to destroying Thrush forever were imprinted on the shiny leather toes. Illya watched him curiously, wondering what sort of response he would get when Napoleon eventually chose to speak.

'You're wrong,' Napoleon said at last.

'What do you mean, I'm wrong? I've seen you. You can't possibly deny it.'

'Leave it. Come on, we'll be late if we don't hurry.' Illya looked as if he was about to argue, but the curious natural deference that sometimes washed over him struck again and he rolled his eyes, nodded, and allowed Napoleon to usher him into the room.

* * *

'Quickly, the two men by the door, you're just in time, take your partners, there's a space right where you are.'

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other in confusion, but everyone was staring at them and the woman caller had her hands on her hips.

'Gentlemen, you are holding up the whole dance. There are no girls left, you'll have to partner each other, get in the circle, cross hands.' Napoleon shrugged and held out his hands to Illya, who took them and stepped into the circle next to Napoleon. The music started and the caller called.

Evidently, it was something of a mixed group, with a predominance of people who rarely did this sort of thing. They promenaded and span and swapped partners and failed to swap partners so that single people were left all round the circle. When the dance ended, Napoleon looked around for Illya. He was on the opposite side of the circle and looked vaguely uncomfortable. The caller was off again.

'Find your partners,' she yelled over the bustle, 'and I don't want any squabbling this time, get back with your first partner or we'll be here all night.'

'Bit of a battle-axe, isn't she,' said Napoleon wryly, sliding into the gap next to Illya. Illya just raised his eyebrows and sighed, resigned to a night of folk dancing when they should be finding the historian.

'Form squares, one couple to each side, should be the right number, I think.'

They found themselves hustled into a group of eight, none of their fellow dancers had the slightest look of the missing historian about them.

'Couples with their backs to me are couple one. The rest of you number off anti-clockwise. First move is couple one, ballroom hold, once round the outside of the circle, anti-clockwise. Walk it.'

Napoleon looked at Illya and a would-be infectious smile spread itself across his face. He held out his left hand and laid his right on Illya's back. Illya nodded slowly,

'I see, I get to be the girl. Don't think I'll forget this, Napoleon.' They walked their way around the circle.

'I'll make it up to you sometime.' They came back to their place and Napoleon slowly let go of Illya, as if deep in thought. It was funny, but the loss of Napoleon's hand from his back felt somehow disappointing.

The caller was gazing over to the door, and gestured at some more people who had just entered.

'You two girls over there! Yes you. I have a pair of men over there who need girls to partner them. Go on, get over there.'

The girls walked quickly, and with some evident confusion, over to Illya and Napoleon. Napoleon nodded a welcome.

'Good evening ladies. My name is Napoleon Solo. This is Illya Kuryakin.'

'Lorna Fitzroy, and this is my friend Rachel Howard.'

'Delighted. Well, we seem to be, er, destined for each other.' He wiggled an eyebrow at her. 'May I have the pleasure?' She took his hand. Rachel stepped closer to Illya, staring at him as if he were a particularly delicious slice of cake.

'I thought I was going to be very bored tonight, but now I think it will be fun.' She flashed dark eyes at him and Illya allowed a slight smile to twitch at his lips.

'The circumstances are certainly much more favourable than they were a moment ago,' he said. She was staring again,

'What is that lovely accent?' she asked. 'So subtle, but very....oh, I'm sorry, I am making you embarrassed.'

'Not at all. I come from Kiev. Though I have worked in New York for some years.'

'A Russian? How did you come to be allowed to work in America?'

'I have a very well-connected uncle,' Illya said happily as the music started and they commenced their steps and turns.

An hour later, the caller finally allowed them to stop and the dancers broke up into the general milling-about of a crowd at a party. Napoleon tracked Illya down to a table in the corner, where Rachel had dragged him the moment the music had stopped, and, feigning exhaustion, was leaning obviously on his shoulder. Lorna hung on Napoleon's arm, gazing unashamedly up at him. He looked at her and gave an apologetic smile.

'I'm sorry, but I have some pressing business with my partner and regretfully I'll have to forgo the pleasure of your company for the rest of the evening.'

'Must you really?' she asked, trying out a little-girl whine that made him smile and pat the side of her face tenderly.

'Afraid so. Unfortunately we are slaves to our work and must get back to it. I trust you will have a pleasant conclusion to your night.'

She huffed at him and held out a hand to Lorna, whose face had also dropped.

'I suppose that means I can't keep you either?' she said. Illya inclined his head. 'Too bad. You're cute enough to eat. If you're staying in town, look me up. I work in the café on the high street most days.' She laid her hand on his cheek, letting her fingers trail off it in a slow stroke as Rachel dragged her away.

Illya looked up at Napoleon, sighed and got up. When they were back in the car, Illya rested his cheek on his hands on the steering wheel and looked across at his partner.

'Okay, Napoleon, put me out of my misery. What is this pressing, urgent business? The historian? She was there. I managed to pin a trace and an invisible skin-bug on her, half-way through the dancing. The London office will be watching her, but she hasn't moved an inch since she went home earlier, nor do I think she will, not with half their agents watching the exits.'

'I know. I got a bug on her too. Shame we didn't spot her together. Would have saved us one little bug. No, it's nothing particular. I just wanted to have dinner with you.'

'You gave up a date with a perfectly lovely girl, just to have dinner with me? What? Am I suddenly more important than a girl?'

'Of course you are. You're my partner.'

'No.' Illya lifted his head from the wheel to gain some emphasis for his words. 'No, no, no. I mean, what's different now that makes me more important than I was before?'

'Uh, look,' Napoleon shifted uncomfortably, 'I, uh....this is something I need to work up a bit of courage for. I'll...'

'Napoleon Solo, are you in love with me?' Illya asked with a laugh. Then his laugh suddenly faded. 'You...' He clapped a hand to his forehead and gazed out of the window, silent for a moment before he spoke, 'Of course you are. Idiot Russian. So that's what you meant... Not jealous of me, jealous of the girl I was kissing...' He took a deep breath, and looked across at Napoleon, sitting next to him with a look of deep horror on his face that said "discovered". Illya's astonishment seemed to melt away in that second. To Napoleon's utter confusion, he pouted in amusement and broke into a grin, 'Well, come on then, I thought you were going to feed me? You know what they say, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.'

'Well, it certainly is to yours.' Napoleon looked completely dumbfounded, but his partner's refusal to view what he had just discovered as anything remotely out of the ordinary had completely thrown him. For the moment, all he could do was respond in kind. 'You mean you don't mind?'

'Why should I mind? Come on, I'm starving.' He started the car. 'Where to?'

'What do you want to eat?'

'Something filling. All that dancing has made plenty of room.'

'Okay, let's go Italian.'

'Self, self, self.'

'Italian won't do?'

'Of course it will, I'm just being difficult.'

'Just being Illya, you mean.'

Illya grinned and Napoleon tapped him lightly on the arm. 'Well, I'm glad. I thought– Well, never mind. Park up here. There's a good little place just around the corner.'

'How do you know?'

'I scouted it out earlier. Don't you do a restaurant check in case you get a date? Mind you, you weren't exactly the date I expected.'

'Disappointed?' asked Illya, as he turned off the engine.

'Hey! Who was going to ask who?'

They got out of the car and Illya gestured for Napoleon to lead the way.

They entered the restaurant, a cosy little bistro with dim, golden lighting and well-padded seats, got some drinks and ordered food.

'Polpette _and_ lasagne?' asked Napoleon, eyebrows raised. Illya ignored him, munching his way through half the breadsticks in the jar between them before the waiter had even placed their order with the kitchen. Napoleon reached out for a breadstick of his own and his fingers brushed lightly against Illya's, which were returning for his sixth. Illya did not pull his fingers away, but took his time selecting his breadstick, not acknowledging the touch, but not rejecting it either. Napoleon drew back his hand and nibbled slowly at his own breadstick, watching Illya curiously. Illya was not looking at him, in fact, had not looked at him since they had sat down, but it didn't feel wrong, not as if he were doing it to avoid or annoy Napoleon. But then, Illya always had had some peculiar habits.

Their food arrived, Illya's taking up half the table, and they tucked in. Napoleon ate rather more slowly than Illya, firstly because he was not such a natural wolfer of food; secondly because he wanted to make his meal last through both of Illya's; and thirdly because he wanted to watch.

Napoleon loved watching Illya eat. It was like watching somebody who had never expected to have that much food, who was overjoyed to _have_ that much food, and who had always eaten in haste to avoid losing what little he did have. Napoleon suspected that this might be close to the truth, but he didn't like to ask. Besides, it allowed him to watch the expression of pure bliss without Illya picking up on it. Usually.

'Napoleon,' Illya said between mouthfuls, 'I always thought you were just prone to staring, but if you don't mind, just once in my life, I would like to eat my dinner without you staring at me. You may ogle later, but I want to finish my meal first. Otherwise I shall be grumpy all night.'

'Well, we wouldn't want that.' Napoleon growled. Nevertheless, he continued to watch Illya through his eyelashes.

'Dessert?' he asked. 'They have a fiendish zabaglione.'

Illya shook his head.

'What? Are you serious? Illya Kuryakin is not having a dessert?' He leaned a little closer and switched to his tried and tested bedroom voice, 'Well I am.' Illya gazed at him steadily.

'I'll have a coffee.'

'Sure? I'll get them to wreck a Tiramisu with a shot of Stoli if you like.'

'Just a coffee.' Napoleon raised an eyebrow, but nodded and called the waiter over.

'Er, one zabaglione and two coffees.'

No matter what Illya said about Napoleon watching him, Illya's observation of his zabaglione consumption was intense and off-putting. He finished it with some relief, wishing he'd stuck with just coffee, as he would if he'd been on a date with some girl and she'd chosen to skip dessert. Illya's eyes bored into him as he slid the fluted glass away and pulled across his coffee cup. A single drop of dark coffee shook free of the rim of the cup and trailed slowly down to the saucer. Napoleon watched it, wondering when having dinner with Illya had become so difficult. He cleared his throat and looked up, meeting Illya's gaze with a great effort.

'Now who's watching who?' he asked croakily. Illya just kept staring. Napoleon recognised some nifty psychological footwork and sighed, 'Why? Why did you say that?'

'Say what?'

'"Why should I mind?" That's what you said. Did you mean you've, uh, considered this before? Why were– are you so comfortable about this? Come along, my friend, I've known you long enough to know you don't tell a guy half of what you're thinking anytime, but it never occurred to me that I could do this and not have to scrape myself off the wall afterwards.'

Illya looked over his shoulder, checking how private their situation was. The corner where their table was situated was cut off from the rest of the place, music played too loudly. The waiter was behind his bar, bored, reading a sneaky book. It was safe to talk.

'I care. That's why. I've always cared. Just as you have always cared about me.'

'I have?'

'Don't you know? Napoleon, there has never been anyone in my whole life who cared about me as much as you. If you want me to be clichéed, no-one has ever looked at me the way you do.'

'What way?'

'Like...like I matter to you. Like you...like you love me.'

'Oh.' Napoleon pulled uncertainly on the collar of his suddenly tight shirt. 'You do it too you know.'

'I know. But my eyes aren't as distracting as yours.'

'What about my eyes?'

'Don't fish Napoleon, that's all you're getting out of me.'

'I didn't mean...I meant that, well, my eyes are normal. Yours are...'

'Mine are what?' Illya had the good grace to drop his gaze to the table.

'Now who's fishing? Yours are heart-breaking.'

Illya choked on his coffee, but when he looked up, his eyes were wide and he had lost the jocular cast he had been wearing up to now.

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'Why didn't _you_ tell _me_?' Napoleon countered. 'You said you knew about me. You still didn't say a word.'

'No. I knew you looked at me in a way you never looked at anybody else. I didn't know whether I was right about why.'

'So why did you risk it?'

'Because I am not such a fool as you. What would you have done? Ummed and ahhed all evening and never said it? Or told me straight out, like you would with a girl, as if it were as easy as that? Well, it isn't. Which is why I waited for the appropriate opening you gave me to ask if you loved me, which, given your reputation with, er, blondes, we could both have laughed off as a natural and meaningless misunderstanding if it turned out to be well off the mark. Not that I had much doubt. You were getting a bit obvious.'

'Obvious?'

'Jealousy is a difficult emotion to control, Napoleon.'

'I noticed.'

'Hmm?'

'You. I know you think you've been awfully clever, but I did know you had...well, at least some pretty friendly feelings for me.'

'I–'

'You're as bad as me. It's just that you've got more reason. I mean, sorry, more frequent reason. I mean, you spend enough time rolling your eyes at me and you don't always look all that amused. Though I know you try.'

'You know I...what?'

Napoleon inched closer, letting a finger trail discreetly across the back of Illya's hand. Illya glanced over at the waiter and nudged Napoleon's hand away, without much conviction. Napoleon let his voice slip into the low rumble that made women melt.

'You try. You try so well that I didn't spot it for years. I thought you found my little, uh, escapades, amusing, or exasperating. I was never quite sure which. But recently...I don't know. I think you seemed more frustrated than anything else. I put two and two together and I thought I knew what was going on. As it happens, I was right, but I couldn't be sure. I wasn't going to do a thing, but it nagged at me. Knowing that it was probable you might...' He sighed. 'I was too well hooked to do what I should have done and ignored it.'

'Well, I'm rather glad you were.' Illya pulled Napoleon's empty zabaglione flute over to him and dabbed up the dregs of eggy marsala in the bottom of the dish with the tip of his little finger.

'Don't do that,' said Napoleon.

'Mm?' asked Illya, sucking on the finger.

'You're being unnecessarily seductive,' Napoleon explained, looking rather shifty.

'So what? You do it all the time.'

'Touché.' Napoleon watched Illya, who refused to look up him. He raised his hand and nodded to the waiter.

He paid, adding a generous tip, then stood, looking down with his head on one side.

'Shall we go? Or would you rather stay here all night?' Illya kept his head tilted down, but when Napoleon bent to take a look, he saw that he was hiding a broad grin. Illya raised his eyes, saw that he'd been caught and got up.'

'Yes, let's go, before I do something _really_ stupid.'

* * *

They made it through the door of the room before Illya turned to grab Napoleon's lapels and kiss him to within an inch of his life. Napoleon, stunned, gave in for a moment, allowing Illya to kiss along his jaw, en route to his mouth, before he reluctantly turned his head evasively and wriggled out from between him and the wall.

'Uh, should really check first, mm?

'I guess you're right,' replied Illya breathily, and just a tiny bit guiltily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They searched the rooms in double-quick time, finding nothing but a fresh supply of toiletries from housekeeping, and quite literally bumped into each other by the bed.

'Find anything?' asked Napoleon, struggling to keep his hands off Illya until the official side of things was complete.

'Not a thing. You?' asked Illya, with an equal display of self-control.

'Nope. We, ah, seem to be next to the bed.' Illya grabbed his lapel again, fiddling the jacket button with his free hand and slipping it off before Napoleon could make a move.

'Your powers of observation,' he kissed him briefly as he wrestled Napoleon out of his holster, 'never cease to astound me.'

'That's my jacket you just trod on,' said Napoleon round the side of another kiss.

'It's seen worse,' Illya said with a shrug, 'Put it on your expense account. I'm sure Mr Waverly would like to hear _that_ story.'

There was a knock on the outer door and Napoleon deflated.

'I suppose we can't just ignore it?' asked Illya, with no hope whatsoever.

'Well, we could...but I'd kind of like to know who's out there before I take any more clothes off, hmm? Might even be room service with some more food.' He winked at Illya, slipped his shoulder holster and his rumpled jacket back on and headed for the door. There was no reason why Thrush agents should be outside their hotel door, but then it never did to be complacent. He opened it a crack and saw a pretty girl adjusting her makeup.

'Well, good evening, Miss Fitzroy. What brings you here...actually, more interestingly, how did you find "here"?' She snapped her mirror closed and slipped it back into her handbag.

'I found your room key in your pocket while we were dancing. I slipped it out to look and you didn't even notice. Well, this is room six-two-three. There's no other hotel in town with this many floors. So I came and asked for you an hour ago. Only you weren't here, so I waited. I must have been in the powder room when you came back. I didn't know until the receptionist told me you'd come up here.'

'Quite the little detective, aren't you?'

'Where were you?'

'I told you, I had business with my partner.'

'Good dinner, was it?'

'Huh?' Napoleon scratched his head. 'Oh, come in, you can't just stand out there in the hall.'

She sauntered in, swinging her hips. 'Yes, well, it smells like it was good. Spag bol?'

'Uh, no, mostly Penne alla Arrabiata.'

'No, I'm definitely getting mince.'

'Where did you train?'

She laughed, 'I used to be a cabaret act. It's all basic observation, but it impresses people. My daddy taught me most of it, and I used to read a lot of Sherlock Holmes. So, where's the mince come in?'

'Okay, let's see how good you are.' Napoleon raised his right hand, displaying a slight patch of redness on the back of it, spreading towards his wrist. She took his hand and rubbed her fingers lightly across it.

'Well, I would say, given the information I already have – you have mince on your breath, you went to dinner with your business partner... Either you just knocked your hand on a door-frame at some point, or you stole some of his dinner and got a slapped wrist for your troubles.' She wiggled a playful pair of eyebrows at him.

'Very good,' rumbled Napoleon, glancing back over his shoulder, 'Mr Kuryakin is rather protective of his food.'

'And have you finished your "business" for tonight?'

'Why do you ask?'

'It's just that I have an invitation to a little party that's going on down in the old warehouse on the waterfront. It's a top place, pretty exclusive, carries on till dawn. I thought you might like to come along. Rachel's there already, Mr Kuryakin could come too, she wouldn't mind getting another dance out of him you know.' Napoleon gave a little smile and let his hand wander around her silkily-clad waist.

'I'm sure she wouldn't, he's quite a mover.' She gave him a strange look, then her face cleared as the tip of his nose brushed her forehead.

'Mm, you coming then?'

'Sorry. I can't. I have a...' he stopped, struggling. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a believable excuse.

'He has a business meeting in less than seven hours, and if he doesn't get to bed now he will be in serious trouble with his associates,' Illya called from the bedroom door. 'So you need to remove your arm from around that girl and get to bed, Napoleon.' His eyes flashed.

'Oh, sorry. I didn't know,' she said. She looked at Illya appraisingly, returned her gaze to Napoleon, and glanced between the two of them while Napoleon exchanged an uncertain look with Illya. 'Sorry to have disturbed you. Mm, cute. Bye, Darling.'

Napoleon leaned in for a farewell kiss, but she had turned and gone before he knew what was happening. He gazed down the corridor after her, then shut the door slowly, turning to look at Illya.

'She may be... too good,' he said, 'Thank-you for... rescuing me.'

Illya narrowed his eyes,

'Oh, I assure you, it was entirely selfish. I thought you might have trouble curbing your gentlemanly instincts. What do you mean, too good?' He stepped closer and stared into Napoleon's eyes.

'She has quite a party trick...sort of drawing-room detective. The sort who can tell if you've been to Belgium by the colour of the mud on your boots. I don't suppose it took that much detective work to figure out that someone who is allowed to slap me for trying to get one measly mouthful of lasagne, and who is standing in the bedroom door with his shirt open and his hair all mussed like that, is possibly not just my business partner. Hell, Illya. If she figured–'

'She's a pro, you said yourself. I wondered what you two were muttering about. Plus, she's a girl. They do those things. Besides, I don't look that bad. That's just wishful thinking on your part.' He nipped at Napoleon's chin. 'We didn't get far enough for me to look all that suspicious. Perhaps we could get back to it? Unless you actually want to follow her. You looked like you might be persuaded quite easily. I'm known for my patience in the line of duty, but it runs pretty thin out of hours.' He tilted his head up and caught Napoleon's mouth in a determined kiss. After a moment, he pulled away and frowned comically. 'She's right, you know. You do taste of _my_ lasagne.'

'Well, for that, and for acting easily distracted for the benefit of that young lady, I do most sincerely beg your pardon,' growled Napoleon, walking Illya backwards towards the open door of the bedroom, divesting him of his shirt and fiddling idly with the thin chain around his neck as he bent for another kiss, enjoying the unfamiliar firmness of male lips and the tickle of Illya's light stubble.

Illya threw Napoleon's jacket into a corner, where it would not get trodden on, and laid the holster by the bed as they stumbled down onto it. He allowed Napoleon to lie him down, content to watch him exploring his chest with his fingers while Illya drank in his scent. It was so comfortable, that smell all around him: Napoleon's aftershave, like a herald of assistance and safety. How many times had he been prepared to die in the next few seconds, only to catch a whiff of that smell, (still noticeable to anyone familiar with it, even though Napoleon usually washed most of it off before a job,) and been in a U.N.C.L.E car and driving to safety, Napoleon at his side, within the hour? How many times had he woken up next to that scent in a cell, or packing crate, or basement and known that, no matter how bad it got, Napoleon was with him and everything was bound to be all right? Well, he had been patient and it had paid off, because now he was drowning in it. Napoleon on a night at a dance, even for work, was not a Napoleon who stinted on the aftershave, and it swirled around them, invading Illya's nostrils and making him giddy with pleasure. He ran his hand through the short, rough hair on the back of Napoleon's head and snapped at his nose, grinning like he had wanted to for years. The tiny smirks he had allowed to show to his partner on occasion had let off a little steam, but they were nothing to the blistering rays of sheer joy at being near this man that flooded out of him now.

Napoleon's shirt was open to his waist, but the cufflinks were still in and he couldn't spare the time to get out of it properly. He never went this fast with a girl anyway, and it would be satisfying to make Illya wait for whatever it was he really wanted tonight. Actually, Napoleon wasn't entirely certain what that was. It was obvious enough that neither of them could wait for that first kiss, and equally obvious that they both needed to feel skin on skin, but beyond that? Illya's eyes were feverishly bright and he was smiling as if he couldn't help himself, his breath panting between his exposed teeth. A wave of desire washed through Napoleon and he pulled Illya up to him, kissing the edges of that unprecedented smile and wrapping his arm around him.

Odd. When he put his arm around a girl, it felt like he was protecting her. They were so delicate, such dainty limbs. He could wrap his fingers full-circle around most girls' upper arms, and their shoulders fit in his palms, warning him to be gentle. There was no such warning with Illya. His muscular upper arms could barely be circled by both of Napoleon's hands together and his shoulders were broad, bunched knots of coiled power that moved like wild-cats under Napoleon's fingers. Make the wrong move with Illya and he wouldn't break him, he'd be fighting for his own life. He ran a finger up the side of his neck, feeling the tendons moving under the skin, the change from soft nude skin to emerging bristle, the texture of blond hair that had not been held in place with half a can of lacquer.

Illya pushed his head into the gentle touch, enjoying it. Then the fingers stopped moving, and he opened his eyes, seeing Napoleon gazing at him like he was a work of art. He thought for a second and made a decision.

With a flick of his arms and a twist of his back, he threw Napoleon off, back onto the bed next to him. Napoleon lay there in surprise, wondering why he had been utterly unable to defend against that one, basic little move.

Illya stared down at him.

'Napoleon, I just want to make one thing clear. When we were dancing and you needed to, er,' he licked his lips, 'assert your masculinity, shall we say, I didn't mind you treating me as a girl; but you can't do it in bed.'

'Yes,' Napoleon replied sheepishly, 'I'd kind of realised that. But you needn't worry. I really don't think I could, even if I wanted to. Problem is, I don't know...'

'You don't really know what to do with me.' He grinned and kissed him again. 'Well, further than this, which I could very happily do all night,' he was smiling so hard it made his voice come out like a little boy's. Napoleon tried hard not to smirk at it, and failed. Illya shook his head, letting his hair sweep across his forehead and continued, 'I don't know what to do with you either.'

'Ah.' Napoleon pouted his lips up to his nose and drew in a defeated breath, 'Then we have a problem, because I was counting on you for inspiration.'

'Well, let's see.' Illya rolled off Napoleon and settled down beside him, lifting his arm to get at his cuff and start pulling out the cuff-link. 'How about this for starters? You are entitled, largely due to the fact that I couldn't even think of stopping you, to touch any part of me with, well, with any part of you. In whatever way you like.'

'Uh...' said Napoleon, unable to think of anything more intelligent for a moment. 'Likewise, I'm sure, but... You trust me that much?'

Illya gave an exasperated sigh and flapped at the released cuff,

'Napoleon, I have trusted you with my life on more occasions than I can remember. I was under the impression that you trusted me.'

'I do, I do,' stammered Napoleon, wrong-footed.

'That's all right then. Shall we see where it gets us?' He regarded Napoleon through half-closed eyes, only to wrinkle his nose and flop back on the pillows as a communicator went off. 'Yours, or mine?' he asked heavily.

'Mine,' said Napoleon slowly, then continued mischievously, 'but you threw my jacket all the way into the corner, so I think you should probably fetch it.' Illya harrumphed and got up to fetch the communicator. He fished in the inside pocket for the silver pen and tossed it to Napoleon. As Napoleon opened it, Illya threw himself back down next to him to listen in.

'Mr Solo, I've just had word from our London office. They've heard from your bugs. Have you?'

Napoleon winced,

'Uh, no Sir, we weren't expecting anything till the morning. Thought we'd leave surveillance to London in the meantime.'

'That's all very well, Mr Solo, but I'm afraid whatever sleep you and Mr Kuryakin were planning on getting tonight will be somewhat curtailed. They are driving your historian to Manchester in the morning, first thing. To a place called St Henry's. They have something there they wish her to see. Our London agents will cover her from this end, but you and Mr Kuryakin will go to Manchester at dawn, find this St Henry's and see if you can arrange a little more intensive surveillance than you seem to have managed tonight.'

'Yes Sir. We'll, uh, do that.'

'And Mr Kuryakin?'

'Yes Sir?'

'See to it that you both get sufficient sleep before driving all that way. Explaining to Accounts why they must pay for yet another car is becoming rather a chore. No late-night shenanigans. Of any kind. Please.'

'Yes Sir,' Illya replied with a tiny frown. Napoleon closed the pen and put it down thoughtfully on the table. He glanced at Illya, who shrugged, wrapping his arms about himself, feeling the cool of the room for the first time.

'What does he think we're doing, do you think?' Illya asked.

'I don't know. I never quite know how much Mr Waverly knows.' He paused, looking down at Illya's bare chest. 'Ridiculous. The man's only human.' He paused again, scratching his chin uncertainly. 'I think. Anyway, whatever he thinks we may or may not be up to, unfortunately, he's right. Given the chance, U.N.C.L.E agents who have to get up before dawn tomorrow...today, cannot afford to stay up playing games. No matter how pleasant.' He heaved himself off the bed and stripped off his trousers, sitting back down to remove his socks.

'Well, that's more than we managed in,' Illya looked at his watch, 'over an hour,' he said, giving Napoleon's legs a swift up and down look. He got up and headed to the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, freshened up and also minus his trousers. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers, trying to force them to focus properly. When he opened them again, Napoleon was sitting opposite him, on the other bed, also trying desperately to keep his eyes open. Now that the prospect of sleep and nothing else lay ahead of them, the idea of trying to remain awake seemed a much more difficult endeavour.

'Well, at least come over here. I'm not going to have my whole evening ruined,' Napoleon murmured.

'You always do choose the most spacious sleeping arrangements during an affair.'

'So it's a single bed. It's better than a hole under a staircase, or your favourite cell bunk, isn't it?'

'If I fall out, I'm holding you responsible,' Illya grumbled, rubbing his arms to warm up. Napoleon rose to his feet and graciously pulled back the covers on the bed. Illya slipped in, squirming down into the sheets, trying to find a warm spot, but they were crisp and cool. Napoleon got in beside him, searching for the same elusive warmth.

'We should have got this warmed.'

'What do you suggest? A maid with hot coals? You've been spending too much time at that museum.'

'Mm, very likely. If you don't want to fall out, stop burrowing around like that, come here.' He reached an arm across under the covers and wrapped it around Illya, who turned over, a contented smirk on his face, and snuggled into the warmth of Napoleon's chest.

'Hey! Turn out the light first.' But Illya was already doing a very decent impression of somebody deeply asleep, and Napoleon had to struggle a hand out into the chill air to hit the switch, before bringing it back inside to hold Illya close.

* * *

They woke about three hours later to the invasive ringing of Napoleon's travel alarm clock. Illya rolled over, groaning, and buried his head under the covers.

'Time to get up, sleepy-head,' said Napoleon, already out of bed, infuriatingly chipper and half way to the bathroom.

'I hope you're driving,' Illya muttered drowsily. He pushed back the covers and rolled upright, shuffling across the room to lean on the bathroom door frame. Napoleon had tugged on his vest and was combing his hair into place. He saw Illya's reflection in the mirror and turned on the cold water as fast as it would go. He beckoned Illya over and pointed,

'Head. Under.' Illya shivered and stuck his head under the tap. He came out gasping, water dripping from the ends of his hair, the tip of his nose, his lips. Napoleon grinned rather hungrily, threw a towel at him and headed off to make coffee. By the time Illya emerged from the bathroom, there were two cups of almost-good coffee ready, steaming on the side, and Napoleon had managed to whistle up two plates of bacon and eggs from a bored, and therefore speedy, room service.

'Shouldn't we be heading off quickly?' asked Illya, tucking into his bacon.

'Not without breakfast. I'm not driving all the way to Manchester on an empty stomach.'

'Mm,' grunted Illya and hurried down the rest of his plateful. 'So, what do we do once we get to Manchester?' he asked, picking the crispiest bits of bacon from Napoleon's plate.

'We do what Mr Waverly told us. Find St Henry's, lay in a bit of equipment and hang around until a couple of little birds show up.'

'Okay. You get us to Manchester, and I'll see what I can do on finding the place.' He finished the last of Napoleon's breakfast, wiped his mouth on a napkin and stood up. Napoleon regarded his empty plate, sighed resignedly, knocked back his coffee and threw on his jacket. Illya was almost at the door by the time he caught him up and tapped him on the shoulder.

'Hey. I know we're on duty and we're being admirably professional, but I'm accustomed to kiss the person I've just spent the night with, even if I didn't really have time to get anywhere with them.'

'I have a horrible feeling that if we do this, it's going to make me antsy for the rest of the day.'

'Well, that's a risk I'm willing to take.'

Illya tipped his head from side to side in a considering sort of motion, seemed to come to a favourable decision, slipped his hand around the back of Napoleon's head to pull him close, and kissed him tenderly. Napoleon tried to sink into the kiss, bringing his arms up to hold him closer, but Illya ducked out and opened the door.

'Let's finish _this_ affair first, hmm?' Napoleon nodded, allowing only the slightest disappointment to show on his face.

They checked out a somewhat dilapidated car from the U.N.C.L.E. pool and Napoleon drove them to Manchester, enjoying the clear, early morning roads. Illya wrestled the map into a shape that would get them off the main road and right up to the door of the building without any re-folding en route, and was woken three and a half hours later on the edge of Manchester by Napoleon prodding his leg.

'Fine shotgun you are,' he muttered, as Illya stretched and looked blearily at the map.

They found the building with very little difficulty. It was just before eight and there was no-one in sight at the front. A little investigation around the sides of the building provided a choice of ways in and a small explosive and a bit of jemmying saw them into a first floor room.

Two and a half hours later they were back out on the street, running towards the car and keeping a sharp lookout for anyone who might have seen them coming out. Illya opened the door and hopped automatically into the driver's seat, throwing a large book into the passenger foot-well and Napoleon jumped over the side into the passenger seat, pulling out his communicator as Illya pulled the car away and sped through the streets, keeping an eye in the mirror for signs of pursuit.

'Open Channel D. Mary? You getting me?'

'Mary here, Napoleon. We've got the full transcript. What was the view like from where you were? We had trouble seeing anything, they were between us and the papers.'

'Yes, I know. I thought about getting out of my closet at one point and moving the camera over a ways, but I thought it might not go down too well.'

Mary laughed and Napoleon grinned, slipping into his accustomed smooth tones for relaying information to the women of U.N.C.L.E. Illya gave him an exasperated glance and drummed his fingers on the wheel as they screeched round another corner. Napoleon noticed, holding onto the door to keep himself upright and cleared his throat in acceptance of his crime.

'I had a fairly good view through the crack in a door. Wouldn't have been my ideal choice of location, but we were caught in there rather sooner than we expected.'

'If you hadn't eaten all that bacon first thing...' muttered Illya.

'And Illya was cramped up in the cubby hole in the desk. Luckily they weren't expecting us; if they'd looked they couldn't exactly have missed us,' he went on, ignoring Illya. 'It's a huge great book. Really big. The sort of thing you get in museum libraries, about the size of a newspaper, but thick, leather-bound. Red cover, cracked, looked pretty old. I'd say turn of the century or even earlier, maybe as far back as the 1850s. They turned her to the middle pages. I couldn't see the detail, and I don't think it matters given the information we got verbally, but it's a map, quite basic. Shows the north of England as you heard. There are lines drawn over it, must be the lines she was talking about, but they're all in different colours and have symbols by them. That's what they wanted her for, I guess. She obviously understood it all. Would have taken the U.N.C.L.E. code room a good bit of work to decipher I think, they just didn't have time. That must be why they involved her.'

'We thought it must be something like that. Some of our experts here have been listening in. It seems like it's to do with ley lines. The book can't be as old as you think. They were only posited in the 1920s.'

'I thought ley lines were just a load of hokum?'

'The jury's still out on that one. Maybe it's just coincidence. Looking on her files, she's done a lot of work on historical references to places of power in folklore, that sort of thing. Perhaps the book is older and it's charting something different. Whatever it is, it should show us where to go to locate the crystals. You got the book?'

'Yes. I just hope I can remember where she was pointing as she spoke. I don't think we stand a chance at liberating her. They had six guards round her when they took her off. That's how we got the book. They left it while they made sure they had her safe. I suppose they didn't think it mattered so much. if they had the only person who could read it.'

'Well you hold onto those memories, get back here as quickly as you can. Mr Sowerly wants you in debrief repeating it back to us as soon as you get in.'

'Right. We'll be about four hours.'

'No you won't. You'll stop just south of Stoke-on-Trent and get picked up by a helicopter. We need to get to work on the book as soon as possible.' Napoleon glanced at Illya, who shrugged and increased their speed a little. Napoleon's knuckles whitened on the door, but soon relaxed enough for him to release them and pocket the little silver pen.

'You heard the lady,' he said.

* * *

Napoleon was irritable. He had spent the rest of the day before and the whole night sitting in a briefing room at London headquarters, racking his brain to try to squeeze out every last tiny nugget of information about the sketchy little map in the stuffy-smelling book they had managed to seize. He was slightly concerned that no-one had followed them, but suspected that once again they had been aided by the lack-lustre security of this particular schemer.

Assisted by endless cups of strong coffee and the detailed questions of London agents, he had managed to decipher most of the lines and symbols, occasionally remembering something that moved them on enormously, before returning to hours of fruitless pointing and guessing.

It didn't help that Illya had cried off this particular session, claiming, with a fair amount of justification, that his position under the desk with his nose buried between his knees had not been conducive to learning anything helpful that they didn't already have on the audio transcripts. He argued that his presence would be of more use in the labs and disappeared barely half an hour after their return. If their early morning kiss had indeed made him antsy, he was hiding it supremely well. Napoleon hoped he himself was doing as well. The urge to go after Illya, push him up against a wall, kiss him silly and return to his debrief, hopefully leaving a little Illya-shaped puddle gasping in the hallway, was playing merry havoc with his concentration.

Some time around dawn, when Napoleon was thinking an hour or two's sleep in the rooms down two floors from the briefing room wouldn't go amiss, a girl from Intelligence had broken into their tired ramblings about the last two possible positions for the placement of crystals on the map, and told them that they had news from an agent following up on Sydney Bloss that the flight today was not purely a test. A testing laboratory in the Yorkshire Dales was in the final stages of developing a new weapon that Ms Bloss would surely be keen to add to her arsenal as a trophy to woo Thrush Central. There was no choice, they would have to go after her. All the available British field agents were now being re-directed to the known crystal points, but it was like letter-boxing on a grand scale. The crystals were not sign-posted at any of the locations. One had been found, but after the agent had called in, the line had gone silent and it was suspected that they had been spotted and the crystal replaced. If they couldn't find the crystals, they would have to stop the flying machine. She would surely be on it herself, a job like this would be too big an event for her to give it to a minion. Within the hour, Illya had been rooted out of the depths of his laboratory, Mary had been called in and Napoleon was back out of the briefing room and heading with the others for another U.N.C.L.E. helicopter to take them to the airfield.

Now they were running, full pelt, across a springy stretch of level heath with Mary, in pursuit of one of the museum's off-show flying machines. On board, Sydney Bloss, ignorant of their encroaching presence, was seated next to the pilot, whose legs and arms worked mechanically fast, bringing the machine up to take-off speed. It left the ground as Illya reached it, grabbing the tail and pulling himself on board. His extra weight slowed it down enough for Napoleon and Mary to catch up, and as Sydney looked around, her face twisted as she saw them climbing to a more stable position. She screamed at the pilot to take them down, but her words seemed to bounce off him and they soared into the air, leaving the ground far below.

Sydney crawled out of her seat, snarling. She did not intend to be thwarted and grasped a nearby strut, supporting part of the bi-plane-like wing structure. She kicked out at them as they crawled closer and they fell back. She snarled and let go of the strut, coming at them as if her anger would make her a match for the three U.N.C.L.E. agents. They could do nothing but hang on to the machine until she reached them. The odds were not good for either party, balanced so precariously, so high in the air, but the framework of struts criss-crossing all around them gave them some hope. Illya was creeping across on the other side of the body of the craft from Napoleon and Mary, and Sydney seemed not to have noticed.

The pilot seemed not to notice anything. Clearly the effects of the crystal made him overwhelmingly single-minded. The craft tipped as Sydney crawled towards them, fury written all over her face. The cold air was making her eyes water and she wiped at them with the back of her hand as they approached.

She reached Napoleon first, grabbing at his throat with one hand, while her other clasped the nearest strut. Equally dependent on holding on to something, Napoleon scrabbled at the hand at his throat with his one free hand, kicking at her with his legs. Illya, being stuck on the wrong side of the central structure, could not get a hold on her, nor could he make himself heard by Mary, who was making her way over to Napoleon to help. The position was precarious enough; with three of them crammed onto one edge of the wing, they were bound to upset the craft.

'Stop!' he yelled, but the wind whipped his words away. He watched her wrap her legs around a strut, leaving both hands free to attack. She was well-trained, there was no doubt about that, but this was not the ideal circumstance in which to demonstrate this fact. He started to look for a way over. Whatever happened, it was clear his help would be needed.

Sydney scratched at Napoleon's face, her grip on his throat lost at the moment she tried to protect herself from his kicking. Mary had finally reached her and grabbed a leg. Sydney bucked and writhed, kicking her trapped leg to free it. Mary clung on tightly, tucking her head down next to the leg she held, to shield it from the other, free leg. Napoleon took advantage of Sydney's momentary distraction to wedge his feet into an angle and release both his own hands. He managed to grab Sydney by the neck, squeezing until she was forced to let go of her strut to use both hands to pull at his hands. Mary had both of her legs now, and Illya made for her, to help restrain the furious Thrush agent, now fighting for her life. Napoleon tried to grab her hands, but she clawed at him, rolling out of reach. The roll took her shoulders and back over the edge of the wing and she started to slide off the craft. Napoleon grabbed her wrist, trying to pull her back, but at that moment his feet pulled free of the angle in which he had wedged them and her weight pulled him over the edge. Illya watched him slide away from him.

'Napoleon!' he cried, not sure whether the moisture flowing down his cheeks was from the wind, or actual tears. It seemed impossible, after the number of times he had watched his partner head into life-threatening situations, that his emotions should betray him now, but he was no longer on such solid ground when it came to emotions linked to Napoleon.

'Napoleon!'

Mary's own grip on the craft was failing. He watched her desperately flexing her ankles, trying to regain a secure hold, but now she was hanging onto most of Sydney's weight and it was dragging her over.

'Let go!' yelled Illya, shouting into the wind. She either did not hear him, or ignored him, and he started to crawl to her once again, half-blinded by the moisture streaming from his eyes. He watched in horror as she, too, lost her grip and slid towards the edge. At last she let go, but the angle of the craft, tilted by their combined weight, had made her journey too fast, and inertia carried her over. Illya scrambled over, grief giving him a fearless speed, and he reached the level edge of the wing, holding a strut with one hand and looked over, closing his eyes, not wanting to see the bodies of his fellow agents, not far enough below.

'Illya?'

The faint voice made his eyes shoot open, and he stared down, straight into Napoleon's face. A relieved grin spread itself across his face, and faded just as quickly when he realised the tenuous grip Napoleon actually had. One hand was wrapped around a strut just below the level of the wing, the knuckles white, the flesh between a purplish-pink. His other hand grasped Mary's wrist and she dangled below him, slowly pulling the pair of them away from the craft. Napoleon's face was distorted with the strain of hanging on with both hands, and it was clear he would soon have to give up. Illya reached out, but unless he released his grip on the craft, he would not be able to reach.

'Hang on!' he shouted. Napoleon put a supreme effort into a reply that sounded, while slightly strained, as cool as if he had been sitting on the ground,

'Well, actually, I wasn't thinking of doing anything else.' Illya gave a half-amused shake of his head and hurried to pull himself back to the cockpit, where the pilot flew on, oblivious as ever to the drama behind him.

The pilot wore a long, silk scarf, another detail to complete the anachronistic setup, and one which Illya blessed inwardly. He unwound it from the man's neck and scrambled back to the wing. He tied the scarf tightly around his ankles and then around the wing-strut. Thus secured, he headed back to the edge. The scarf gave him greater reach and he found that he he could now touch Napoleon's dangerously-slackening hand. Another shuffle forward and he could reach his lower shoulder, enough to get a hand under his armpit to haul him up.

However, he could do nothing about Napoleon while Mary hung from his other hand. He knew that. He called down,

'Mary!' She looked up, fear making her face look drawn and tired. He shouted down, mouthing each word heavily to make sure she understood,

'I'm at full stretch, you need to reach up, climb Napoleon's arm.'

She nodded and managed to swing her other arm up and hold Napoleon's wrist with it, but she had no strength left to pull herself up. Napoleon shook his head: he could not lift her after all this time hanging there.

Illya stretched as far as he could, willing his back to extend, his joints to distract just enough. With a final grunting stretch, he managed to get both hands under Napoleon's arm. His stomach muscles screamed as he hauled on the arm, raising it over Napoleon's yells of pain, Mary rising through the air like the load on a crane. He got her up to the level of Napoleon's shoulders and shouted,

'Grab onto his neck!'

Her hands were so cold from the fast-moving air, that she could barely comply, but with a moan of effort, she transferred her grip.

The alteration in his centre of gravity nearly cost Napoleon his grip, but in the moment when he might have been lost, Illya found a more secure grip under Mary's arms and pulled her up onto the wing, allowing the motion to carry her back over him and close to the struts.

Without even looking to see if she had held on, he leaned back over, and watched Napoleon's last finger-joints start to slide off the strut. The hand that had been holding Mary's wrist was as weak as a child's and useless to hold on. Reaching down, Illya grasped his two wrists firmly in his hands and pulled.

It was impossible. There was no way, from that angle, that he could haul Napoleon onto the wing. He took a chance, pushing Napoleon's good hand against the edge of the wing until the fingers closed reflexively about it. With a little of the weight taken, he released that wrist, used his free hand to help him squirm back a little, and then reached down and grabbed him under the arm. Rolling back with all his strength, he raised Napoleon until the larger man could get his leg up onto the wing and assist in pulling himself aboard.

They lay there, panting, the wing tilted dangerously towards the ground once more.

'Mary,' Illya gasped, 'Can you climb over to the other wing?' Mary nodded, her few minutes of recuperation having restored a little of her strength. As she climbed over, the craft levelled a little and Illya pulled Napoleon further on.

Napoleon laid a hand on his partner's waist, the nearest part of him he could reach, and said as loudly as he could,

'Okay. I'm okay now. Just give me a minute.' Illya glanced across at Mary, who was now looking straight ahead, trying to ascertain their destination. He took a chance and lowered his own hand to lie on Napoleon's. He felt it twitch uncertainly, then turn over to grasp his fingers and give them a quick squeeze, before letting go again and withdrawing. Napoleon sat up, buffeted by the wind and reaching instinctively for a strut, and took a deep, puffing breath, eyes squeezed shut for a moment.

'Thanks,' he said.

They sat on the wings, getting colder and colder in the rushing wind until the craft started to descend. They could see the instruments of torture around the pilot working constantly to keep him on course. His body twitched reflexively with the pain and his limbs kept on working at impossible speeds, but otherwise he gave no sign of sentience.

As they started down, Mary pointed and yelled across at them.

'That must be the test facility there.'

They followed the line of her finger and Illya squinted down at the buildings nestling on the hillside.

'Looks rather busy for a small place like that.' He was right. The whole area was crawling with people and vehicles.'

'Them or us, d'you think?' asked Napoleon. Mary's communicator went off and she struggled it out of her pocket and held it to her face, shielding it with her cupped hand.

'I guess they got the power back on,' Napoleon said, nodding at the electronic device.

Neither Illya nor Napoleon could hear Mary's conversation over the wind, but she grinned at them as she closed up the pen and shouted across,

'They managed to get at the crystals and smash them up. The field is no longer working and they think they've rounded up most of the people involved. They've got Sydney's body. She's very, very dead.' Illya wrinkled his nose and watched the ground rise up to meet them.


	5. Act IV

**Act IV – 'They're never quite so dangerous as you.'**

Mr Waverly met them when they returned to London headquarters, having flown in that morning. He received them in the office he used when he was in England and paced comfortably around the table as he spoke.

'Well done gentlemen. Quite a successful affair, I should say. The museum is being cleaned out and its...legitimate treasures distributed among the appropriate institutions. We also have a little reprogramming session going on downstairs for the unfortunate experts whose help had been enlisted for the project. I am sure most of them will find institutions that are very happy to take them on, but they will have no knowledge of the processes that were carried out in that basement.

'Mr Solo. Mr Sowerly tells me you were of great assistance in deciphering that map that was used to locate the crystals.' He looked through his bushy eyebrows at Napoleon, puffing gently on his pipe.

Napoleon shifted in his chair,

'Well, Sir, I only remembered what I had seen. I wouldn't say I did any, ah, original work on it.'

'You're too modest, Mr Solo. I think your skills might be just what is needed on a little affair we're currently working out in Antarctica. How would you feel about going to help out?'

Napoleon felt an involuntary shudder run through him. He hated the cold and Illya, standing behind him, knew it only too well.

'I really think you're overplaying what I did, Sir. I don't think I'd be of any value.'

'No? I'm sure Mr Kuryakin here would agree that you did a fine job.' He looked to Illya for confirmation, his eyes twinkling. Illya couldn't resist it,

'Oh yes, Napoleon would be a great asset. But...perhaps he would work better on anything required for the project from an office in a more temperate zone?' he added, suspecting that Napoleon would have his guts for garters if he actually got sent to Antarctica. Apart from which, he wanted Napoleon with him, now. Or sooner, if possible.

'No, his presence will be needed on the spot. I'll call our contact out there and make the arrangements.' Mr Waverly flicked the switch on the desk communicator. Illya looked at him in alarm.

'Sir, you're not really sending Nap...Mr Solo all the way down there for a desk job?' he said, wondering how he got the nerve. Mr Waverly's hand hovered over the switch. He looked hard at Illya for a long moment, until Illya started to shift uncomfortably. Then the ghost of a smile appeared on his face and he flicked the switch off again. He looked up,

'Well, now you put it like that...No, perhaps not. I think there is a better use for him in New York. You are both booked on the seven-twenty flight back, so you had best go and get ready. I'll expect your field reports by the end of the day tomorrow.' He gestured them out of the room and they got up slightly uncertainly.

'I really thought he was going to send you straight off on another affair then,' said Illya as they walked towards the entrance.

'Mm, I can't be sure, but I think Mr Waverly was teasing us.'

'What did he mean "a better use"?'

Napoleon shrugged,

'Why doesn't he want our reports until tomorrow _evening_? He usually wants them yesterday.'

As they neared reception, Mary ran up to them from behind.

'I just heard you're leaving,' she said, looking breathless and disappointed.

'Yes, we have to catch the evening flight back to New York, Mr Waverly's orders, so I'm afraid we must hurry,' replied Illya. Napoleon allowed a slightly smug look to creep onto his face. Trust Illya to throw cold water on the girl. She was obviously besotted with him and Illya just didn't register it at all. Napoleon thought about the last evening Illya and he had managed to spend together and his smile broadened. Yes, he was very happy, for once, to see a girl let down, seeing as it was by his partner. Illya was right though, and gallantry wouldn't save them any time. They turned and were about to walk away when she ran around in front of them.

'I'm sorry, this is very unprofessional of me, but I have enjoyed working with you, Illya,' she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He disentangled her and pushed her reasonably gently away. From the look on his face, Napoleon thought she was lucky to still have all her teeth. Innocents doing that was one thing, but fellow agents? _Only if they're called Napoleon_, he thought with pride. Illya shook his head.

'You could have done that somewhere less public,' he muttered to her, irritated. She shrugged, obviously not regretting it. They left her damning her own luck in the corridor and walked back to the hotel.

Napoleon glanced discreetly at his watch as they neared the building, but it was already five o'clock and they would be pushing it for check-in as it was. They packed and got out in record quick time and were on the flight home before they had time to think.

* * *

They dropped their luggage to the ground as Napoleon's door slammed shut behind them, and Illya turned to grab him and kiss him as he had been dreaming of doing for the last four days, but Napoleon was gone, striding across the carpet towards the kitchen. There was an offer in the set of his back, however, a temptation that said, _Try and stop me..._

Illya darted across the room, tackling him from behind and sending him crashing to the floor. He rolled over, automatic self-defence kicking in before his conscious mind took over and he stopped fighting, allowing Illya to dive at his mouth, biting at his lips, sweeping his own tongue in to dance with Napoleon's, relieving him of his shirt and opening his fly before saying a word.

'You wear too many layers,' he said, plucking at the tight, white vest. Napoleon sneered.

'I think a vest, shirt and jacket would be considered inadequate for most open-air aviators,' he said, 'Anyway, I was just going to go and get something hot and tasty to warm us up, _then_ you can remove my vest if it offends you.'

'Oh no you don't. I want to taste _you_, not your soup or coffee or whatever,' replied Illya, and returned to the assault on Napoleon's mouth. His hands were everywhere, rucking up the inconvenient vest around Napoleon's chest, struggling to undo his own shirt, stroking down the sides of Napoleon's neck and back up into his hair, feeling the solid skull, hot and hard...two adjectives he liked the sound of just now.

They skidded across the polished wooden floor, shoes kicking scuff-marks that Napoleon would curse later. Illya straddled him, using his weight to pin him down. His mouth slipped from Napoleon's and he let his forehead slide down Napoleon's cheek and nestle into the side of his neck. Napoleon coughed and put his hands on his shoulders, pushing him up a little.

'You're crushing me,' he whispered, feeling Illya's chest heaving on top of him. Illya pushed back and planted another brief kiss on his lips,

'Sorry, too much adrenaline for a moment.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

'Too much adrenaline for one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents?' Illya took advantage of the pause to sit back on Napoleon's legs, yanking his vest up over his head.

'Napoleon, when people are shooting at me, or the walls are caving in, or I have an airplane that's out of fuel to land, I at least have somewhere for my adrenaline to go. You don't know what you do to me. For four days I have been acting my shoes off, pretending I didn't give a damn. Well that kind of waiting can really wear you down.'

Napoleon looked slightly befuddled as his head popped out from the neck of his vest, leaving his hair sticking up in all directions.

'Uh huh? Well, you're still crushing me, and much as I adore you, if you don't shift, I'm going to lose the use of my legs, and as you are so fond of pointing out, there are some things it is slightly...embarrassing to have to explain to Mr Waverly.'

'Says a man who can throw off three attackers at once,' muttered Illya, moving his weight a little, resting on a hand planted in the middle of Napoleon's chest. He held Napoleon's gaze, daring him, watched his eyes narrow, his muscles tense slightly, then felt the spring and heave of muscle groups working together to throw him to one side, Napoleon following him over and purposefully coming down on top of him, flattening him against the warm wood.

'They're never quite so dangerous as you,' Napoleon breathed against his lips with some pride, accepting Illya's nudge upwards and pressing their lips together, hands fumbling to open the buttons on Illya's shirt, with which Illya himself had failed. It was more difficult with Illya's hands rubbing firm patterns across his back, tracing scars and the odd shapes of chipped or badly set broken ribs. He gave up and slipped his hands into Illya's trousers, brushing the points of his hip bones with rough fingertips. Illya squirmed and wriggled out from under him, blond hair sweeping across the floor, and looked back at a bemused Napoleon.

'I see what you mean about getting squashed,' he said hoarsely, 'I want to be on something soft, and I need to go faster.'

'Faster?' asked Napoleon as Illya pulled him easily to his feet and started to drag him across the room to the sofa.

'Faster. I don't,' he kissed him, 'know how long _you've_ actually been waiting, but you are looking at years and years,' he kissed him again, 'of frustrated Illya, compounded,' he dragged at Napoleon's waistband, forcing him to stop and step out of his shoes and trouser legs, 'by four days of knowing I had you and couldn't do anything with you.'

'And have you,' Napoleon asked, taking the time to undo Illya's buttons and slip his shirt off, 'worked out exactly what to do with me this time?' he grinned playfully and Illya returned the smile, making little fireworks go off in Napoleon's chest.

'Oh yes. Why do you think I had that blanket over my lap for the whole flight back?' Napoleon gave a little nervous cough and slipped his arms around Illya's bare torso.

He knew every inch of it. Every bump, every dent, every scar. He had bandaged many of them himself at one time or another, pinched others together for an hour while they waited for a medic to come and stitch them up properly. The topography of Illya's back was so familiar from years of reciprocated massages and time spent in close quarters with the man, that it ought to have felt like touching his own skin. But it didn't. Suddenly, in that moment, it was as new and fresh as if he were being allowed to touch it for the first time. He spoke, interspersing his words between kisses; lips splayed against Illya's skin, nipping his chin, feeling the way his nose could nestle gently in Illya's eye-socket while his lips plucked at his cheek, making Illya sigh and go slightly limp in his arms.

'You're right, faster, need, to get rid of, that, adrenaline, of yours.' He pulled them down to the sofa, which was, admittedly, a lot more comfortable than the floor, and shuffled them around until he could strip Illya naked. He sat back to admire, his mouth hanging slightly open, and Illya got to his knees, his hair all mussed over to one side, one pupil slightly off-centre, giving him a deliciously abandoned look. He slammed Napoleon against the sofa back and climbed on top of him, his shoulders level with Napoleon's eyes so that all Napoleon could see was the imperfect line of his collar-bone, rising and falling with his unsteady breathing . Napoleon put his hands about his waist, pulled him closer, laid kisses on Illya's pale chest. He felt Illya's feet slide down one leg, finding the top of his sock, pushing it down into uncomfortable folds around his ankle. He hiked up his leg, scrabbling at the sock, wanting to get rid of anything that was distracting Illya. He dealt with the other sock himself, returning his hands to Illya's waist as Illya removed his own hand from Napoleon's shoulder and shot it down between them.

'Napoleon's lungs took an unexpectedly deep breath as Illya's fingers closed around him. He looked up and found himself staring into blue eyes. Illya sank down to him, pressing their foreheads together, his knees gripping Napoleon's thighs, one hand bracing himself on Napoleon's shoulder, the other working him with considerable care and restraint, given the obvious charged lust in his eyes. Napoleon blinked to give himself a chance at breaking eye contact and glanced down. His hands moved easily on Illya's skin. New and unexplored it may _feel_, but his hands could still find the pathways around Illya's body without any sort of reference to his brain. He stroked across the soft skin inside Illya's hip, fingers tangling into soft blond fuzz, then stroking up, finding a comfortable grip, learning a rhythm that made Illya jerk for a second in his lap, then roll his head to the side, trailing his lips down Napoleon's cheek, finding his mouth.

When he kissed his mouth this time it was easy to sink into the sensation, appreciate the taste and texture, while the rest of his body started to respond to Illya's rolling, sliding, gently squeezing hand. He increased the speed of his own hands, taking advantage of his relaxed position, lying back against the sofa with no need to support himself for once, to use both: one fondling – trapped between them in warm planes of soft flesh – one stroking, firm and regular.

Illya's supporting hand slipped off Napoleon's shoulder to the sofa, and he fell against him, his knees still holding his lower body in place. He swallowed and threaded his arm around Napoleon's neck, pulling away from him for a second to gasp at the air as Napoleon managed a half smile and brought the hand that was doing less of the work up to run it through Illya's hair. It came away slightly damp and he grinned more broadly at Illya's exertion, realised that he should probably do more work, and redoubled his efforts. Illya gave a muffled sort of 'Mmph' and his hand moved spasmodically around Napoleon who felt the change in tempo like a blast of heat firing out from his groin. Illya's eyes were closed now, he was so close. Napoleon could feel him tightening, straining, and he reduced his efforts a little; he himself wasn't there yet, not quite yet, and despite Illya's occasional advocation of the best socialist principles of equality, Napoleon wasn't convinced that he would actually be up to applying them once he came.

'Napoleon!' Illya gasped, feeling the reduction of pressure, 'Please!' Napoleon stroked his neck and swallowed,

'Uh huh. Jus' minute.' He thrust into Illya's hand, feeling the fingers tighten and increase their speed as a note of understanding struggled its way through Illya's sex-drugged brain. The pressure in Napoleon's groin started to build and his mouth fell open. Air: he needed more air. Illya's head was against his cheek, open mouthed, moist lips lying against his own, breathing second-hand air across them. Not that Napoleon minded receiving anything that came from Illya, but he needed oxygen. He turned his head, nestling his chin in Illya's shoulder, wrapping his free arm around his back, pulling them together, chest to chest. Illya struggled, pulled Napoleon away from the sofa back, let go of him, working his legs up, out of their kneeling position, digging them in around his back, locking his ankles behind Napoleon's back, rocking his hips against Napoleon's. Napoleon groaned at the loss of Illya's hand, then bit down not-so-gently on Illya's shoulder as he slid closer into his lap, both his arms pulling Napoleon against him. Napoleon opened his fist and took them both into its circle. He pumped at them, feeling Illya's arms spasm tightly around him, his sharp nose digging into his neck, as moisture splattered out over Napoleon's fisted hand. He kept moving, determined not to be left behind, and let his teeth sink a little deeper as he finally came, feeling Illya twitching against him, little trickles of sweat running down their sternums where their skin didn't quite meet.

* * *

It was cold now, the air in the apartment needing some heating to take the chill off, but Napoleon couldn't countenance the idea of getting up to do it. That would mean leaving Illya, who was regarding him through the narrowest of slits between his eyelids, fingers rubbing tiny circles on his chest, legs still at an awkward angle, wrapped around Napoleon's waist, even though he had slipped off to the side. Napoleon was sure it was a conscious decision, to leave them so uncomfortably placed, since it left him with a grandstand view of damp blond curls and soft, blushing flesh. Their breathing was starting to calm down now and goosebumps were emerging on his legs and arms as the sweating warmth of sex and satiation turned to evaporation and chill. He snuggled down next to Illya and lifted the leg that lay across his lap, sliding himself down so that he lay on Illya's chest. No good. He couldn't see Illya, and he _wanted _to see Illya. He rolled over, wincing as his tender flesh rubbed on the sofa. Illya's face crunched up in pain for a second as he accidentally rolled hard onto muscle.

'Sorry Illya,' he said.

'One day,' said Illya softly, his accent thicker than normal, as if doing something so primal made him regress slightly, 'I am going to teach you to say my name properly and you'll actually remember for more than five minutes.' Napoleon shuffled further up, leaning, but not too heavily, on his chest, feeling the warmth of still air build up between them.

'I do say it right. For me. Ill-ya,' he teased, planting a kiss on his chin. Illya laughed and put his warm arms around him. The apartment started to drift away and he sank down onto his chest, wondering vaguely at what point he had wound up being the one being looked after. _Quite nice, for a change... _he thought as his eyes closed.

* * *

For once, one of so few occasions he could count them on his fingers, Illya had got the girl. That is, to be more precise, the girl had decided that she had got him, slipping her arm through his as they walked slowly around the edge of the crowded dance-floor, before pulling him onto it, into the middle of the crowd.

They had been moving slowly among the other dancers for about quarter of an hour, when Illya felt a familiar hand on his shoulder and heard an unnecessarily seductive voice rumble into his ear,

'Wanna come home with me?'

He narrowed his eyes a little at the obviousness of it all, but his frown faded to an amused smile over the girl's shoulder and he prepared to make his apologies and leave with Napoleon.


End file.
